


Nobody moves, nobody gets hurt

by Leandra



Series: Nobody moves, nobody gets hurt [1]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: All the cuteness, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Sex, Arthur is an artist, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, M/M, Merlin Is In A Band, Merlin is a Little Shit, Morgana is a little goth witch, Oral Sex, POV Arthur, POV Merlin, Pining Arthur, Rimming, Step-Brothers, Step-siblings, Uther and Hunith marry, all the sex, two weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-28
Updated: 2020-08-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:14:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 17
Words: 117,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26030971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leandra/pseuds/Leandra
Summary: Arthur's life is turned upside down when Uther announces his marriage to a woman his children barely know. Enter Hunith and her son, Merlin, who is everything Arthur is not: unapologetically loud-mouthed, rebellious, cocksure and unabashedly queer. He’s also every bloke Arthur ever had a crush on rolled into one, despite wearing a hideous combination of Oxfam bargain bin and Pride parade and playing obnoxious new rave music in a band called “i am magic”.His unfortunate attraction to Merlin isn’t the only thing Arthur has to deal with: His last year of sixth form lies ahead and satisfying his father’s expectations of becoming a lawyer like him suddenly seems impossible to reconcile with Arthur’s passion for drawing and sketching.Meanwhile Arthur and Merlin’s relationship runs through a quick succession from reluctant strangers to trading hostile insults to burgeoning friendship to somewhat fuck-buddies in the span of a couple of weeks.Life is all kinds of complicated and Arthur finally has no choice but to stand up for what he wants…
Relationships: Arthur/Mordred, Hunith/Uther Pendragon (Merlin), Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Merlin/Others
Series: Nobody moves, nobody gets hurt [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2120874
Comments: 262
Kudos: 332
Collections: After Camlann Big Bang





	1. Part 1: 2014 - Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Thank you to:**  
>  \- my perfect wife, Raina, who is my harshest critic! thank you for listening to me talk about his thing for ages and giving important advice!  
>  \- Ventimocha, you're the best artist I could have hoped for! It was a blast meeting with you on Saturdays and talking about fics and arts and everything else!  
>  \- Kate, my lovely beta, who isn't even into Merthur but betaed the shit out of this monster anyway!!!  
>  \- quantum-drinks, my wonderful cheer-reader: Thank you for your cheer-reading and the late night talks about my fic and most of all your excitement. \- fervidasaflame - for listening to me whine and cheering me on when I needed it
> 
> **Fanmix by yours truly:**
> 
> I've made a fanmix chock full of indie, new rave and dance-punk to set the mood. It's mostly in order with the fic and all the songs mentioned are on it (except for the songs Merlin doesn't like). Find songs by Bombay Bicycle Club, Death from Above 1979, We are Scientists, Late of the Pier, Bright Eyes, The Psychedelic Furs, Digitalism, Death Cab for Cutie, Bloc Party and Does it Offend You, Yeah?:  
> 
> 
> **[Nobody moves, nobody gets hurt Soundtrack on Spotify](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0AP25HELgGYqgSPhzS5xw8?si=xs6mAWf_TLiX9wjD4C5jFQ)**
> 
>   
>  Title inspired by the song "Nobody moves, nobody gets hurt" by We Are Scientists

Uther drops the bomb on a Thursday evening.

It’s dinner time at the Pendragons, shortly after 7.45 p.m., and so far it has been like any other Thursday dinner since Arthur can remember, which means it’s been boring and filled with stilted conversation about mundane things - Morgana’s classes, Arthur’s rugby training, Uther’s defence cases. Like always there have been three courses, soup or salad, a main course of meat (fish only in summer or on special occasions) and dessert (fruit, mousse, cheese - take your pick.) It’s the only family dinner during the week and neither Morgana nor Arthur would even dare to stay away, unless sick with a fever.

It’s only when Uther puts down his dessert fork and clears his throat and says “I’ve decided to marry again,” that the evening takes an unexpected turn for the remarkable.

The loud clatter of Morgana’s cheese knife hitting her plate as it falls from her hand coincides with the piece of grape Arthur accidentally inhales into his windpipe. Arthur starts coughing and wheezing right away, struggling for air, while he ponders if he really heard Uther say the words that are repeating themselves over and over in his head. His eyes start tearing up as he hacks out another cough, but the grape is stuck and he can’t breathe. He makes his hand into a fist and knocks it hard against his breastbone, grunting when the fruit dislodges and comes back up, spat out onto his plate.

It takes Arthur a couple of moments to regain his breath, but nobody pays his struggles any heed: Morgana is gaping at their father, for once utterly speechless, her hands hovering awkwardly suspended in mid-air above her plate.

“Please tell me it’s not that nurse from Hackney you met in the hospital after your appendectomy last winter?” Arthur wheezes out at the same time as Morgana’s face breaks out into a huge smile and she says, her voice cheerful, “Oh, that’s bloody brilliant! I’m so happy for you!”

Arthur blinks and stares at his sister, completely dumbfounded by her reaction. Sometimes he does wonder what is wrong with her; she never behaves the way he expects her to. He feels like he doesn’t know her at all these days, for all that they were thick as thieves when they were younger.

“Her name is Hunith. You actually met her,” Uther states calmly, oblivious to the turmoil his words have elicited in his son.

“Yes, as your _nurse_!” Arthur snaps sharply and glares at his father. Sometimes, Uther has the most hare-brained ideas, but this one really takes the cake. He has known that woman for how long now? 8 months? And she’s… she’s just so unlike any woman Uther has shown interest in in the past. It’s bloody ridiculous! Of course, Arthur knows that Uther went out with her, but Arthur thought his father just wanted to get his rocks off (but why he had to do that with a 30-something nurse with mousy-brown hair who lacked the usual refinement of women a business man like Uther would usually be interested to bed escapes Arthur).

“She is very sweet,” Morgana says happily, before picking up her knife again, going back to cutting her cheese into teeny, tiny bits.

“Yeah, if you like embroidered tea towels and frumpy sweaters,” it slips out of Arthur, and he receives a disapproving look from his father, who clearly wants to comment on Arthur’s unfavourable words concerning his fiancee.

It’s Morgana who speaks first, though, sparing Arthur the reprimand.

“Don’t be such a dick,” she glares, her tone immediately affronted on Hunith’s behalf.

Morgana looks scary like this, all angry eyes and wild dark hair - and he’s not entirely sure if she’s attempting to style it in dreadlocks or if she’s just too lazy to comb it. Her lips are painted in a dark red and her eyelids are adorned in a new shade of green. Her complexion is deathly pale due to an extensive use of baby powder. She styles herself like some kind of warrior princess with long, black dresses and Doc Martens.

“Morgana!” Uther chides her, and she ducks her head, her cheeks flushing as she mutters an apology.

There are several things Arthur wants to say - Don’t marry a nurse, you can do so much better! You shouldn’t marry a woman you hardly know, why would you want to marry at all? - but he can barely breathe for the sudden pain in his chest, tight as a knot, as he thinks of his mother, of her soft smile and gentle voice, her boisterous laugh and winking eyes, dead now for … how many years? Nine. It’s been nine years. He was eight then and it still hurts.

The mere idea that someone else should take her place, sit at the table in her seat, walk through the house where she walked, sleep next to his father where she used to sleep, makes him angry and sick to his stomach. Arthur realises he’s holding his fork in a death grip and his hand is aching, so he slowly puts it down and forces himself to uncurl his fingers, opening and closing them on the table top.

“When do you plan to have the wedding?” Morgana asks, moping a bit of runny Brie off her plate with a piece of bread, before popping it into her mouth.

Arthur carefully looks at Uther, who has picked up his cutlery again and has commenced eating, eyeing the Stilton on his plate with casual interest.

“An autumn wedding, when it’s still warm, so at the end of September,” he declares, stabbing a piece of cheese with his fork and placing it into his mouth.

“But that’s already in two months!” Arthur bursts out, aghast, unable to contain himself.

“If you’re as old as me,” Uther says mildly, turning his gaze on Arthur, “a long engagement seems a waste of time.”

“I want to be a bridesmaid!” Morgana blurts, sounding excited. “Oh… oh… may I help with the wedding preparations? I could help her pick out a dress. Choose the flowers! Oh… do you have rings already?”

Shut up, Arthur thinks darkly and reaches for his glass. It’s almost empty, and he wishes he was allowed more than one glass of wine at dinner. Maybe, if he could fill his glass up rather quickly, Uther wouldn’t realise that he has taken a refill?

“I’m sure Hunith will be happy to accept your help, Morgana.” Uther picks up his napkin and wipes his mouth meticulously in it, before tossing it onto his empty plate. “She will probably enjoy having a woman supporting her with the preparations. She has a son, by the way. Merlin’s about your age. Just turned seventeen, like you, Arthur. A very bright young man. Interested in science and music.”

“Oh please…” Arthur mutters disdainfully and decides he doesn’t care if Uther calls him out on it; the revelations of the evening demand more alcohol. He fills his glass quickly, before gulping half of it down.

Morgana laughs and tosses her dark hair back in a gesture Arthur just knows she practiced in front of the mirror, because it just looks fake. “I get another brother? That’s brilliant, because this one is really stupid.”

“You’re really stupid,” Arthur complains lamely, not able to give a good comeback, considering that he’s deeply thrown by Uther’s revelations. He sees his father roll his eyes but ultimately ignore their sibling rivalry. Arthur takes another gulp from his wine glass, downing its content in one go. Not only is Uther inflicting another mother on him, now he’s getting another sibling, too. As if Morgana wasn’t bad enough. A sibling from Hackney. Arthur can only imagine what kind of person grows up in Hackney. He doesn’t have high hopes in ever getting along with that guy. And what ill-advised kind of name is Merlin, anyway? Hunith must have gone through some serious new age phase when she was pregnant to inflict such a name on her child.

“I’ve invited them for dinner next week, so you can get to know them a little better before they move in.”

Arthur can’t hold back the retching sound that comes out of his mouth. Of course they are moving in. That’s the whole point of a marriage, for people to live together. Arthur bites his lip, because he feels anger well up in him and he can’t articulate his displeasure, not yet, anyway. He doesn’t want to share his home with that woman and her loser son. He doesn’t want anyone to invade his home. He will have to share Thursday dinners, too, destined to spend it with people he doesn’t even like. Because he’s pretty sure, he’s not going to like them.

Arthur reaches for the wine bottle once more, filling what is essentially his third glass. The way he’s going, he’ll probably feel the alcohol in a minute or two, but he doesn’t care.

“Arthur, that’s enough,” Uther says sharply and sends him a dark look of fatherly disapproval and like usual, it works. The guilt sets in, of not being the son his father wants him to be, the perfect almost-grown up version of Uther himself.

He sets his half-filled glass down carefully stiffly and slowly pushes himself up from the table. The words come out, childish and petulant, he can’t keep them in. “Don’t expect me to be overjoyed that you find it unnecessary to ask your children when complete strangers move in. And I will certainly not share my room with some fucking low-life from the wrong side of the tracks.”

“You’re such a bloody snob, Arthur,” Morgana blurts out, her pretty, pale face pulled into a frown. It’s funny that she’s doing Uther’s job for him tonight, because once more, her disapproval deters Uther from scolding Arthur for his transgression.

Uther looks unsure whom of his children to call out on their swearing first, but ultimately decides to let Morgana’s words slide. “This is really uncalled for,” he says, his tone filled with careful disappointment. “I want you to form an opinion after you’ve met him and not based on whatever ridiculous prejudices you possess.”

Arthur grits his teeth and feels his fingernails dig harshly into the palm of his hand. “I’m not okay with this. I think you’re making a mistake,” he says, directing his words at his father, before turning on his heel and marching out with as much indignation as he can muster. It feels good, this small if useless act of rebellion, even though it fills him with remorse.

The temper tantrum comes when he’s safely inside his room and he feels all his frustration break out of him as he knocks over a pile of books and kicks his bed - hurting his toe in the process. With a groan he sinks down into his desk chair, whimpering quietly as he massages his foot. It won’t do him any good to get injured, the rugby season is only another five weeks away and his demanding training schedule doesn’t allow for a setback.

For a while he sits there, just feeling the dull, receding throbbing of his stubbed toe, quietly seething as he thinks of the woman his father is going to marry and who’s bringing a son into the relationship and subsequently Arthur’s family.

He feels the need to share the news with someone who will listen and understand and thumbs open WhatsApp, firing off a quick text to Leon, together with a sticker of a fist ready to punch something.

As usual, Leon is a reliable friend, and moments later, his phone rings as Leon’s name appears on his display. With a small huff of relief, Arthur picks up.

“Your father is going to what?” Leon says without proper greeting, and he sounds suitably infuriated by the news.

“Mate, I know, right?” Arthur prompts, and then Leon is talking, mirroring Arthur’s outrage and Arthur leans back and listens, grateful for the support.

Merlin is nothing like Arthur expected. Over the course of the last week, Arthur has conjured two versions of Merlin in his mind’s eye: The first one a badly dressed super-nerd in too loose khakis and a badly fitted button-down with cheap prescription glasses sliding down his nose, a dull high achiever who listens to classical music and goes to the Natural History Museum on Sundays, the other version an overweight, spotty hooligan who smears bad graffiti tags all over town while he slugs around a ghetto blaster with racist rap music. And yes, those two depictions are very much cliché, but still, he feels those versions were much more likely than the one sitting across the table from him at dinner now.

Merlin has a mop of dark, curly hair that falls just so over his forehead and happens to look effortlessly hip. He’s tall and lean, with a square jaw and high cheekbones, blue eyes and a straight nose. His profile is disgustingly classic and his lips are full. There’s a lip ring sitting on the right side of his bottom lip and he has this tic where he draws his lip into his mouth and sucks on it when he listens to what is said. He wears skinny jeans that still don’t really cling to his gangly legs but manage to hug his arse just fine and a rather ugly jumper that looks self-knit, but by someone who’s colorblind and has the shakes. There’s a red cowl scarf slung around his neck even though it’s the height of summer. It makes him look pretentious.

Arthur shifts in his seat and tries to stay focused on the conversation going on at the table that he hasn’t been really part of yet. Hunith is sitting to Uther’s left, in Arthur’s usual spot and Arthur had to move down a seat. It had also been where his mother sat, what feels like a lifetime ago, and Arthur feels her absence like he hasn’t in a long time, a mother-shaped hole in the fabric of reality, just there, at his side. His chest hurts, as if somebody is pressing against his sternum, applying firm pressure.

“Merlin, your mother told me you’re very interested in music?” Uther says conversationally, turning his gaze onto Merlin, as he steeples his fingers and rests his elbows on the tabletop in front of him. Arthur knows that gesture, it’s the one Uther uses when he wants to convey interest - it’s something he picked up during one or the other of his communication trainings, learned, but now deeply ingrained in his body language.

Merlin is slow in answering, and Arthur watches his face go through several different emotions. There’s a small frown drawing his eyebrows together. “Yes,” is all he eventually says, then picks up his fork, lowers his gaze and stabs rather violently at a carrot on his plate. It’s a clear dismissal, and at that moment Arthur realises that he and Merlin have that in common at least: Merlin doesn’t want to be here at all either.

“He’s been making music since he was five years old,” Hunith says into the ensuing silence. “And he writes. You should hear his songs, I think he’s very talented.” She looks at her son with a slightly vexed expression on her face and there’s clearly some kind of silent conversation going on between the two of them, but Merlin chews on his lip and avoids her gaze, concentrating instead on his food, a tragedy in itself. There’s a heap of sauteed vegetables on his plate and nothing else, because nobody told Annie, their help, that Merlin is vegan, and they had shuffled through a rather awkward moment where Merlin had mutely declined first the cream soup and then the roast, sending a disbelieving glare at his mother. Annie had looked harassed and reproachful, completely out of her depth and not understanding why a growing boy wouldn’t want to eat her best roast or her creamed mash, but had quickly reacted to get something onto the table that Merlin could eat.

“I would very much like to listen to your music,” Uther says patiently, and it’s almost painful how much the two adults are trying, Arthur thinks. It makes him feel slightly embarrassed, because it is pretty obvious that the only one being marginally excited is Morgana, who has been bouncing up and down in her seat next to Merlin all during dinner and is pretty much looking at him as if he’s God’s answer to every problem in this world.

“Maybe,” Merlin mutters and shovels more green beans into his mouth without even glancing up.

“I’d love to listen to it.” Morgana reaches for Merlin’s arm, jostling him and tugging on the wool of his jumper. “Are you playing concerts?”

Arthur rolls his eyes at the spectacle she makes, but Merlin glances sideways at her and there’s a small quirk of his lips and his eyes soften as he gives an almost imperceptible nod.

“Merlin is excited about the science programme at Ashbourne,” Hunith mentions, and receives another glare from her son, which she steadfastly ignores. “Arthur, your father told me you really enjoy going there.” She looks at him with a quite hopeful smile, and Arthur clears his throat and wets his mouth to answer, even though the news that Merlin is transferring into his school makes him groan inwardly. He had rather hoped that he would only need to see Merlin at home and could avoid him as much as possible.

“Yes, it’s a good school. Great programmes,” he agrees shortly and ducks his head, hoping she won’t say anything else.

“Arthur will be applying to Oxford this year for the Law Undergraduate Degree.” Uther is using the same technique as Hunith to keep the conversation going, talking about them as if they aren’t even present.

“Oh,” Hunith says, smiling as she leads her fork to her mouth for another bite of the roast, “then I bet you’re already taking a lot of suitable classes.”

“Some,” Arthur mutters, keeping his gaze firmly on his plate.

“Morgana, you can show Merlin his future room later,” Uther proposes, apparently feeling like Morgana is the safest bet he has for getting an answer that isn’t monosyllabic, considering the general air of resigned resistance emanating from both Merlin and Arthur.

“Oh,” Morgana says brightly, reaching once more for Merlin’s arm. “You’ll like it. It has a view of the cobblestone street, and a direct exit onto the roof.”

“But that’s your room!” Arthur bursts out, blinking. His voice sounds rough and stressed even to his own ears.

“Yes, silly.” Morgana grins at him. “I get the room across the hall, the one with the skylight.”

Her words hit Arthur like a brick wall, because the room with the skylight is his mother’s room, the room she used to withdraw to, get some time alone and paint.

At the same time, he realises that he hasn’t given much thought to where Merlin would be staying. He had somehow expected Uther to convert his office, but obviously, it’s much more sensible to reactivate the third attic room. For years, ever since his mother’s death, the room has been in a state of unchanging suspension - her books on the side table next to her armchair, draped white sheet on the floor, spotty with paint drops, her last painting on the easel, forever unfinished. Arthur hasn’t been in the room for years - its closed door is like a ghost perpetually haunting him, ever present, a reminder of better days and a life-changing tragedy.

Arthur draws in a sharp breath and he knows he looks startled, because Uther’s eyes are gentle when he addresses him and he sounds genuinely concerned and just that little bit guilty, probably because he should have divulged that information to Arthur before dinner.

“We thought it best if Merlin took Morgana’s old room. That way you two boys can share the bathroom, and Morgana gets the ensuite in the Skyroom.”

The Skyroom. That’s what his mother called the room because of the huge windows Uther had installed so she could have enough light for her art. Arthur hasn’t heard this name in what feels like forever. He chokes back a gasp and reaches for his napkin to wipe his mouth. He doesn’t want anyone to see how thrown he is, how not very okay. He catches Merlin’s pensive gaze from across the table and blushes, not wanting to appear like a pushover. His fingers are shaking as he picks up his cutlery and he starts sawing at his meat, not looking at anyone.

Morgana has always seemed to move past their mother’s death more easily. Arthur thinks that maybe it was because she was younger than him when their mother died and didn’t have so many clear memories of their mother. Sometimes he also believes it has something to do with the differences in their relationship to Uther. While Uther is demanding when it comes to Arthur, he never asks the same things from Morgana. They share a much more open relationship and Morgana is much more candid with what she says around their father, not needing to heed to her father’s expectations.

Uther clears his throat, but there’s an awkward silence again as everyone concentrates on their food.

When the main course is finished, Hunith gets up to help Annie clear the plates much to Annie’s resistance. Their housekeeper looks almost furious when Hunith starts stacking the plates, taking the dishes quickly from her hands and asking her twice to sit back down, with rising insistence in her voice. Arthur thinks she’s probably worried she’ll be losing her job with a woman in the house. Annie has been around for six years now, and she feels a bit like family to Arthur. The elderly woman is in charge of the house - she does most of the housework and makes sure that Arthur and Morgana are well fed. The rest of the week they usually have dinner with her in the kitchen on the ground floor.

Dessert is fruits and yoghurt, and usually, Arthur would be all over it, but over the course of the dinner he has lost his appetite. He pushes his unfinished bowl at Morgana, who inhales his helping in less than a minute. Dessert finished means you are allowed to get up in the Pendragon household, so Arthur scrapes his chair back and mutters a quick apology, heading first for the loo on the ground floor and then upstairs. Nobody has said that he has to stay around after dinner and he really doesn’t feel like it.

On the first floor landing he all but runs into Merlin, who is standing in front of a painting, hands pushed into the pockets of his jeans. The stairs are narrow and so is the landing, just enough space to navigate if you’re on your own, and Merlin is settled inconveniently with his back against the banister so he can really take in the huge family portrait. Arthur shoulders past him and just prays that Merlin won’t address him, but no such luck.

“Is this your mother?”

Arthur stops in his track, his shoulders tense as he exhales a sigh. It would be very impolite to not say anything. He turns around slowly to find Merlin watching him with wide, curious eyes. Standing in front of each other, Arthur finds that they almost have the same height, with Merlin possibly being taller by an inch.

“Yes,” he croaks out, then clears his throat, embarrassed for no reason he can discern.

Merlin sucks his lip ring into his mouth and keeps regarding him and Arthur feels exposed and naked and strangely undone. He looks away, feeling heat rise in his cheeks and then glances up at the portrait that hangs on the first floor landing, facing the staircase. He hasn’t really looked at it in ages, even though he walks passed every day at least twice. His mother painted it about ten years ago and it shows her and Uther with Arthur standing by their side and Morgana cross-legged on the floor in front of them. He remembers that she painted it partly after a photograph, but made him sit for her a couple of times as well, bribing him with ice cream and the Transformer comic books he loved so much. It’s a lovely painting and she captured them all really well.

“She’s beautiful,” Merlin says, his voice low, but when Arthur turns his head, surprised, Merlin isn’t looking at the painting, but still straight at him.

Arthur swallows. “She is.”

Merlin bites his lip once more and still isn’t looking away. Just when the silence is about to turn awkward, Morgana’s voice is ringing out from above. “Merlin! Where are you?”

The next moment she ducks her head around the banister. “I want to show you your room. Come on!”

“I’m coming,” Merlin calls out, but he is still looking at Arthur, unnervingly so.

Arthur feels like he ought to say something, but he’s struck utterly dumb. Merlin’s eyelashes flutter as he breaks the gaze and he brushes past Arthur on his way towards the stairs. Arthur watches him leave, then climb the stairs in those stupid skinny jeans of his and he curses quietly under his breath.

Groaning, Arthur rubs the palms of his hands against his eyes once Merlin is out of sight. He can only hope that his inconvenient attraction diminishes the more he gets to know him.

What follows over the next two weeks are more family gatherings and outings than Arthur can remember being subjected to in mere days than over the course of the previous year. On Saturday they go to Brighton walking the South Downs way, which Arthur actually enjoys, because it doesn’t require him to talk much with anyone. Hunith and Uther are strolling hand in hand, Arthur walks ahead briskly, with Morgana and Merlin following surely behind him. Merlin is kicking pebbles into the surf, huge headphones on his head, clearly dismissing them all.

Thursday dinner is a fixed point, obviously, and Annie frets and cusses up a bloody storm about having to feed a vegan (a nutritional concept she’s unable to understand and which clashes with her hearty British home cooking) on top of having to cater to Arthur’s rugby diet plan. She manages vegan bangers and mash, because she buys the sausages at the supermarket, but fucks up on the onion gravy by adding cream. Her apple crumble dessert (with vegan butter, she is proud to report) is inspired though and Morgana claims it’s the best she ever made. On Friday night, they all visit the Tate Modern, then go for Chinese food.

Despite Uther and Hunith’s almost desperate attempts to get their children to get to know each other, the mood is lukewarm at best. Merlin is mostly withdrawn and moody and Arthur feels harassed by his presence, partly because he knows he will have to spend at least the next two years living with this complete stranger (unless a miracle happens) and partly because everything about Merlin feels like a very personal attack, on him and his sexuality.

To make matters worse, Merlin is simply weird. He’s like nobody else Arthur has ever known, he’s certainly not like his friends. Mostly, he’s just broody, giving off a clear fuck-off vibe to anyone around him. When he opens his mouth, it’s usually to say something either laconic (conforming to the minimum requirement of human interaction) or snarky and sharp. His sense of humour is dark and Arthur sometimes doesn’t even realise that Merlin has made a joke until someone else laughs.  
It’s Sunday, and Uther has planned the next outing, obviously set on making them spend a lot of time together before Merlin and Hunith move in in mid-August. Arthur is used to Uther wanting to explore the countryside - he loves daytrips and doesn’t shy back from driving for hours to get to see a certain landmark he has set his eyes on, but Merlin and Hunith are clearly unused to being cooped up in a car for two and a half hours straight to get to some distant location and they both seem irritated at the long drive but have decided to suck it up for the greater good.

On their way to Kenilworth Castle, Merlin, who sits beside Arthur in the back, is fidgety, moving around in his seat and jostling him with his sharp elbow. He has his headphones on again, drumming a beat against his thigh with his fingers, looking straight ahead. Arthur puts as much distance between them as possible, considering they are crammed with Morgana in the back of Uther’s sportscar (and he’ll be buying a SUV next, Arthur is sure about that) and leans his head against the window, watching the green countryside pass by while he studiously tries to ignore the closeness of Merlin’s body. Sometimes their naked forearms brush and the touch of soft skin and downy hair zings through Arthur like electricity.

He’s beyond relieved when they finally arrive at the castle and are able to get out of the car to stretch their legs. Uther finds a spot in the gravel parking lot and they all groan and grunt as they pile out of the car, stretching their limbs.

The weather is uncommonly windy and cold considering it’s the end of July. A chilly wind is blowing, the overcast sky filled with rolling dark clouds. It looks like heavy rain later on and Arthur pulls on his windbreaker, zipping it up towards his chin, glad he decided to take it with him and not trust the weather forecast on the BBC, which promised mild but dry weather earlier this morning.

Beside Arthur, Morgana shifts uneasily from one foot to the other. She’s bundled in a dark green cloak, looking every bit the goth teenage witch she aspires to be. Morgana has a thing for history, just like Uther, and she always enjoyed their country trips more than Arthur, but Arthur knows for a fact that she wanted to spend the day with one of her girlfriends, only Uther had insisted that the family trip took priority. She hasn’t forgiven her father and because Morgana is vindictive on principle, she has been projecting her foul mood rather loudly since breakfast.

Hunith stretches her back with her arms overhead, sighing happily as she inhales the fresh, pre-rain air. She’s dressed as if for hiking, sensible shoes, dark jeans and a sweater, and like her son she’s outfitted with a backpack. Arthur remembers the last one of Uther’s girlfriends he introduced them to, a blonde divorcee named Karen, who usually tottered around on 5-inch-heels and wouldn’t have been caught dead with a backpack.

“I’m going to get our tickets,” Hunith says, shouldering her backpack. “You guys try not to kill each other while I’m gone,” she adds, sending a meaningful glance in Merlin’s direction. Arthur has learned to parse that look already - it means “behave” and Merlin usually reacts to it by widening his eyes and making a face. They communicate mostly through nonverbal signals and Arthur wonders if that happens if you spend your life with just one person for too long.

Predictably, Uther announces, “I’m coming with you. I bet they have brochures on the history of the castle.” It’s a lame attempt to escape the teenage triad of moodiness and therefore transparent as fuck. Uther has been avoiding facing the three of them on his own since their first dinner together - maybe he’s afraid of getting eaten alive by the three of them.

“Fine,” Hunith shrugs as she looks a bit curiously at her soon-to-be-husband, “we’ll meet you kids at the entrance gate, then.”

Arthur can’t help but roll his eyes as the adults walk off towards the gift shop, leaving Merlin, Morgana and Arthur standing around in the parking lot with nothing to do and nothing to talk about.

The castle is straight ahead, a huge late-medieval structure with black, large blocks of dirtied sandstone. It’s frankly massive, surrounded by a tall wall flanked by several defensive towers, which are still standing, while some of the main structure is in crumbling ruins; jagged pieces of left-over walls grown over with ivy and derelict buildings without a roof. A causeway leads up to the main entrance.

“The Earl of Leicester built part of this castle to impress Elisabeth the First,” Morgana says, unprompted, breaking the silence that has descended. She has been reading up on their destination during the drive here on her phone and Arthur is reminded of how frighteningly good her memory is. She’ll be sprouting facts and figures all afternoon - no wonder, Uther felt that he needed brochures now that he fell out of her favour.

“The things you do to get into someone’s pants,” Merlin mutters dryly from where he’s leaning against the car next to her, and she snorts in mock shock and shoves him playfully.

“Shut up. They had a great romance.” Morgana crosses her arms in front of her chest and examines the castle ahead.

Arthur lets his eyes sweep over the huge gate tower ahead, wondering how the castle must have looked back in its heyday. “If I remember correctly, Elisabeth strung him along for twenty years or more before he was finally allowed to marry someone else. Doesn’t sound very romantic to me.”

He feels eyes on him and turns to notice Morgana glaring at him. “What?” he asks, “Dudley was totally a kept boy.”

“He loved her,” Morgana sputters angrily, affronted on the Earl of Leicester’s behalf.

“Well,” Merlin shrugs, catching Arthur’s eye, “he got to fuck a queen. Bet he got something out of it. At least for a while.”

“Blokes are so disgusting!” Morgana huffs, turning towards both of them with her hands on her hips. “You always think of one thing. Not everything is about sex.”

“Nah, but most of it is,” Merlin says, offering a playful leer and Morgana glares at him - a stern, sisterly look of disapproval - then stomps off, and Merlin grins some more and shoulders his tattered backpack. He raises his dark eyebrows at Arthur, like he wants to say, Girls, eh? and turns to walk after Morgana towards the gate tower. Arthur feels something cold and hard reach into his chest and squeeze the air from his lungs.

His arm shoots out and he all but yanks Merlin back to his side, making the taller boy stumble and sway into him. His grip is hard, he can feel the lean muscle of Merlin’s upper arm twitch underneath his fingers through his jacket. Merlin makes a startled, breathless sound, but he catches himself quickly, meeting Arthur’s furious gaze with calm indifference.

“If you shag my sister, you’re dead, you understand?” Arthur hisses, bringing their faces closer together. “I’ll kill you.”

Merlin looks unsuitably unimpressed, which angers Arthur even more and he digs his fingers into Merlin’s biceps until the other boy jerks his arm away with a snort. “Oh God, you’re a bit of an idiot, aren’t you?” he says, and while his tone is mocking, his eyes look upon Arthur with something akin to pity.

Arthur feels gobsmacked, because how dare Merlin insult him after openly lusting after his sister and provoking him? While he’s still searching for a suitable reply, Merlin turns and starts walking. He tosses a last glance over his shoulder back at Arthur, once more biting his damn lip, then turns around for good and accelerates his steps to catch up with Morgana. Hopefully to apologise, Arthur thinks darkly.

Uther and Hunith have finally returned from the ticket stand, holding hands and swinging them back and forth as they walk, looking happy and in love like teenagers and Arthur feels resentful.

If it wasn’t for them, he wouldn’t have to deal with Merlin at all. And seriously, Merlin is starting to become such a bother with his stupid curly hair and his blue eyes and pretty lips. He also has a nice voice and a great laugh, and he’s proven himself to be both clever and witty, if somewhat of an arse. When his shirt rides up in the back, showing off the knobs of his spine and the curve of his lower back, Arthur wants to tackle him to the ground and grind against him in mindless lust.

Uther and Hunith walk past him and Arthur finally gets into motion as well, pushing his hands into his pockets as he follows them up the causeway. His mind is in turmoil, pondering Merlin’s words and his own reaction.

For a while he follows after his father and Hunith as they explore the castle, but he keeps his interactions with them to a minimum. They are in their own world, anyway, laughing and whispering and pointing out little details to each other. Uther reads from the brochure and Hunith patiently listens to the dry explanations.

The ruined great hall catches Arthur’s interest and he stays back, exploring the arches and beautiful lines of the tall, elegantly built windows. For a while, his eyes trace the fragile looking sandstone, marvelling at the combination of beautiful, eye-pleasing structures and serviceable areas. He wishes he could make something like this, something to stand the test of time, something grand and magnificent and lasting.

He steps around a pillar and stops dead in his tracks, glad for his soft trainers which make little sound. Merlin is sitting on the ground with his back against a pillar, his backpack open next to him, abandoned. A notebook rests in his lap and he’s writing, his pencil gliding over the page as he takes down notes, no, Arthur corrects himself - he’s composing, possibly a poem or a song.

He leans forward to peer more intently at the writing but he must have made a noise, maybe his trainers scuffed the gravel, because Merlin jerks and looks up, startled. He stares at Arthur for a moment in confusion as if he has forgotten where he is, then snaps his notebook shut and all but jumps to his feet.

“It’s not nice to sneak up on someone,” Merlin mutters, but there’s a flush to his cheeks and he looks slightly embarrassed, as if Arthur caught him doing something dirty. It makes Arthur wonder what it is he’s writing about.

“I didn’t mean to,” Arthur deflects, taking a couple of steps back to put some distance between them, because Merlin is practically vibrating out of his skin, his body coiled as if for flight or fight. “I couldn’t read anything, anyway,” he says defensively.

Merlin shrugs, the flush on his cheeks intensifying, and he turns his head so all Arthur is able to see is his neck, flushed as well, goosebumps breaking out on his skin. Merlin starts shoving his notebook back into his backpack, as if in a hurry to get it away from prying eyes.

When he rises, they are standing too close, and Arthur is blocking the way around the pillar. Merlin regards him silently, almost challenging, his mouth twitching, his eyes wide and dark. His gaze makes Arthur feel awkward and the tension prickles up his spine not entirely unpleasantly.

Something wet is hitting Arthur’s cheek and he reaches up to wipe it away absentmindedly. More moisture, on his nose this time, and he tears his eyes away from Merlin’s face at the same time as Merlin looks up at the sky, dark and rolling with thick clouds.

“Bugger,” Merlin curses as another drops falls, and then another, and suddenly the heavens break open and it starts to pour, just as thunder rolls over the castle, echoing in its ruins. They are both galvanised into motion, their feet hitting gravel, then meadow, then dirt road as they run for the car. Arthur has pulled up his windbreaker, attempting to shield his head, to no avail. The rain is beating down in a torrent, soaking them through in less than half a minute. Next to him, Merlin’s wet trainers slap the ground as he runs, hunched over, his backpack shoved underneath his sweater to protect it and its precious content from the rain. Thunder cracks above them and they both duck in reflex at the sound and Merlin’s laughter rings out even louder, a different force of nature, exhilarated and joyous, a sound so strange to Arthur’s ears. It’s a great laugh, exuberant and infectious, and it doesn’t fit with the broody moodiness that has been on display ever since they met.

When they finally arrive at the car, the others are already waiting for them. They shove each other into the backseat, their wet clothes soaking the upholstery.

“There you are,” Morgana says, heaving out a sigh. “I was all for leaving you both here if it took you much longer. Didn’t you guys realise it was about to pour?” She crosses her arms in front of her chest, pouting. “It’s cold and I’m hungry.”

“She gets cranky when she doesn’t eat enough,” Arthur explains unprompted, like he wants to apologise for her rudeness, rubbing his wet palms on his soaked jeans.

“I get that way, too,” Merlin admits and reaches inside his backpack and offers a Clif bar to Morgana, which she snatches out of his hands with a small quirk of her lips. She doesn’t say thanks, but Merlin smiles as if she did.

“We better get started,” Uther says from up front. “It doesn’t look like it’s going to let up any time soon.” He starts the car and it rumbles to life. The rain is still going strong and the temperature has dropped even more. Uther turns the windshield wipers to their highest setting as he maneuvers them out of the parking lot, amidst what feels like a million other tourists fleeing the spot in a hurry.

Arthur’s skin feels clammy and cold and there are goosebumps breaking out on his skin all up his arms. Next to him, Merlin’s t-shirt sticks to his skin, highlighting the contours of his body - all tight muscle and sharp bones and Arthur averts his eyes after catching a glimpse, because the sight makes him flustered.

After a bit of a drive, the air inside the small car turns warm and damp and the windows fog up. Uther turns on the radio, and Arthur falls asleep to the sound of Joy Division singing about how “Love will Tear us Apart” with his face smashed against the cool window pane, very aware of the feel of Merlin’s body radiating moist heat next to him.


	2. Part 1: 2014 - Chapter 2

Merlin and Hunith move in on a Saturday in August. Uther has arranged for a furniture mover, and all morning long, two young men have been carrying Hunith’s and Merlin’s stuff up the two flights of their Kensington Mew house. The day before, the movers emptied the Skyroom and moved Morgana’s things out of the second bedroom on the other side of the ensuite bathroom and into what is now essentially Morgana’s room. 

Arthur had made it a point to be out of the house all Friday to not witness the desecration of his mother’s room and had only returned from training with his friend Lance after ten p.m. When he had gone to take a shower, the door to the second attic bedroom had stood open and he had caught a glimpse of the bare, empty room where Merlin would move in. It had cemented the fact that no matter what, Uther was going to get married and Hunith and Merlin would become part of the family, whether Arthur approved of it or not. 

So far, Arthur has been avoiding the Skyroom, not wanting to see Morgana move around in a space which in his mind still belonged to his mother. He wonders what they have done with her things, if they have put her unfinished paintings and her easel and brushes into storage either here (although the cellar of the house is perpetually damp) or in a storage facility. The thought makes him angry and sad, so he stays in his room all Saturday, trying to avoid talking to anyone. 

It’s been raining again and Arthur has stayed cooped up in his room, the weather perfectly fitting his wretched mood. For a while he listens to music, but he gets bored soon and decides to do the Plyometric workout his trainer has designed to do anywhere and as often as possible to nurture the kind of explosive speed he needs on the field. He builds up a quick sweat and works himself until he feels that his body has blissfully exhausted itself. He keeps sweating through his stretching exercises and the cool down phase until his t-shirt sticks to his body with cooling sweat. Exercising has left him feeling satisfied, giving him the pretense that he has control over something in his life. 

He yanks off the now damp shirt and tosses it in the direction of his laundry basket - he misses - before opening the door to the bathroom, in need of a shower. He takes two steps into the narrow, tiled room, before he stops dead in his tracks. 

The door to the other room is ajar and there are several boxes stacked haphazardly with Merlin’s belongings. And there’s Merlin, lugging a giant, orange thing through the room. Just then, Merlin looks up and catches sight of Arthur and the next moment, the huge, orange monstrosity is starting to slide from his grip as he stumbles, clumsily trying to regain both his balance and his hold on what Arthur recognises is a keyboard. Before Arthur makes a conscious decision he has darted forward and reached out, catching the edge of the big, vintage instrument.

“Shit,” Merlin says with feeling, and they both grabble to steady the keyboard. For a moment it appears like they are losing the battle and the instrument is going to crash to the ground - because, God, it’s unexpectedly heavy, and Arthur is a 80 kg rugby player doing strength training twice a week, thank you - but then they stabilise the keyboard between the two of them. They slowly let it slide to the ground and Merlin drops to his knees and reaches for it, his fingers sliding anxiously over the bright, 70s veneer as if he’s checking for injuries. “Oh, baby boy,” he coos, “I’m so fucking sorry… “

“What the hell is this thing?” Arthur interrupts him, frowning down at where Merlin is still frantically running his fingers over the keyboard, checking for scratches. 

“It’s a Vox Continental,” Merlin says, and slowly rises to his knees, and because Arthur just gives him a blank look at that, he adds, “a keyboard.” 

“Right,” Arthur says, only now realising the room is already a mess filled with sound equipment and more strange, whimsical electronic instruments. There’s at least two other synthesizers as well as a ton of strange, small rectangular boxes in different poppy colours and sizes with a wide variety of buttons and switches. He sees other instruments as well, something that might be an ukulele and a case holding a guitar.

“I play. In a band,” Merlin adds, almost apologetically, as if Arthur is affronted at the deluge of technical equipment that has taken over Merlin’s room. 

“How are you even able to afford all this shit?” is what comes out of Arthur’s mouth, and he wants to take it back the moment it happens, but it’s too late. He winces and looks at Merlin, whose eyebrows draw together in a frown at Arthur’s words. 

Then Merlin snorts and scoffs, “Seriously? That’s what you ask me? You live in a bloody Mews house in fucking Kensington. You realise that this kind of real estate is worth about 2.5 to 5 million quid?” 

When Arthur doesn’t immediately answer, because he feels embarrassed, Merlin keeps on talking, “If you must know, I’ve been working in my Uncle Gaius' chemist shop since I was thirteen. Most of my savings go into my equipment. But hey, what would you know about working?” 

Arthur glares, because Merlin’s tone has become more and more derisive as he keeps on talking, but Merlin’s right, and it makes him feel guilty. He has been able to spend his spare time playing sports or going on trips with friends and when he wants something, he is usually able to pay for it from the savings of his allowance, which he has to admit is generous. 

Arthur clears his throat and takes another look around at the cables and equipment. “You must have been working really hard - I bet that stuff is expensive.” 

Merlin deflates at his words, the anger leaching out of his body posture, his muscles visibly relaxing. “Well,” he huffs, “my friend Will, he’s a real wizard with everything technical. I usually pick up my equipment second hand and most of it is in rotten shape when I get my hands on it - but it’s cheaper like that. And Will - you just put wrecked electronics in front of him and he takes the biggest garbage and makes it shine. Like Boyfriend here, I mean, he was absolute shit, but Will gave him an overhaul and now he’s my main stage synth. Sexy, too. Makes all the girls cry.” 

“Who?” Arthur asks, almost unable to follow Merlin’s onrush of words. He probably hasn’t ever heard Merlin talk as much before and he’s a bit thrown by all these words coming out of Merlin’s full lips all of a sudden. 

“Boyfriend,” Merlin says as if Arthur is pretty dumb to not know who that is, before pointing at the orange monstrosity that’s still lying on the floor where they put it down. “You saved his life.” 

Arthur all but feels his eyebrows rise as he looks first at the keyboard, then at Merlin, then at the rest of the electronics surrounding them. “You named your keyboard?” 

Merlin’s laughter rings out loud and startled, like he expected Arthur to say something completely different. “All of them. Meet Mr. Sparklypants and the Millenium Falcon,” he says, waving a hand to his right, where other instruments are already unpacked and lining the wall. The names fit, because Arthur immediately identifies a white keyboard with peeling, pink, girlish stickers and a gaffer-taped gray synthesizer with a ton of knobs and several small pedals taped to its surface. 

“You are fucking weird, Merlin,” Arthur mutters, but he finds he says it without heat, and when he turns from his perusal of all the strange equipment, he sees that there’s a small smile on Merlin’s lips. 

“Thank you,” Merlin says pleasantly, as if Arthur had paid him a compliment. 

It strikes Arthur as hilarious, because yes, Merlin is definitely weird with his unfortunate gusto for thrift store clothing (today, it’s a cheesy 80s t-shirt with the arms cut out and a red neckerchief tied around his neck) and his strange kind of humor. 

There’s an awkward pause in which Arthur considers giving into his mood and laughing and Merlin contemplates him with his intense blue eyes. Arthur suddenly feels self-conscious standing in the middle of Merlin’s room in only his training shorts and he crosses his arms over his chest, feeling terribly naked and sweaty all of a sudden, which, considering, is pretty stupid, because he usually feels good about his body. He’s kind of fit, he has decent abs. And still, with Merlin standing so close, he rather wishes he hadn’t gotten rid off his shirt back in his room. 

“You need to stop sneaking up on me, though. You startled me,” Merlin says in a low voice and his eyes slip off Arthur’s body as he bends to pick up the discarded keyboard. He carries it over towards the bed, depositing it safely on the quilted bedspread. His fingers slide ones more over the veneer, almost lovingly, before he straightens and turns to face Arthur again. 

“Keep your bathroom door closed, then,” Arthur retorts, relieved that Merlin has stepped back and isn’t standing so close anymore. 

Merlin shrugs and lifts a finger to his neck, rubbing against a knob on his spine. His t-shirts rises, the cutout holes wide enough to reveal a pale stretch of skin underneath his arm. The hair in his armpit is long and dark and Arthur averts his eyes, because all of a sudden he wonders about how Merlin would smell if Arthur buried his nose there. Probably musky and spicy and a little bit sexy. There’s writing tattooed on the inside of his wrist in a swirly font and Arthur cranes his neck to read it. “i am magic”, it says. He doesn’t know what it means, and he doesn’t feel like asking, not right now, anway.

Arthur swallows and decides it’s definitely time to leave, before he can start contemplating other things about Merlin that catch his notice. He doesn’t know what to say and he doesn’t want to sound lame, so he just turns around and retreats to the bathroom, slamming the door behind him. He slumps against the cool tiled wall once he’s safely inside, glaring down at his crotch where his dick is twitching in his shorts, not having gotten the memo of Merlin being his soon-to-be-stepbrother. His dick also never considers the very likely fact that boys Arthur is attracted to are straight to an overwhelming percentage. Arthur manages to take a quick shower without touching himself, because that feels just wrong with Merlin on the other side of the wall, and then retreats to his room. 

The shower has left him energised and he reaches for his drawer, taking out his pencils and sketchbook. As per usual, there’s the sour taste of guilt at the back of his mouth as he spreads out his drawing utensils on the table, like he is doing something dirty, but the feeling vanishes once he sets his pencil down on an empty page and starts to draw. Calm fills him and he feels himself slip away completely, his mind pushing out unpleasant and unwanted thoughts in favour of concentrating on the one thing that brings him joy unconditionally.

Arthur is leading the pencil over the pages, remembering the arches of the Great Hall of Kenilworth Castle, his tongue poking out the side of his mouth as he concentrates. He sketches its outlines in firm, even strokes, adding the parts that are missing with his imagination, the Great Hall as it might have been comes to life on the pages of his sketchbook. He draws a chandelier and long tables with narrow benches, a high table with chairs, a fireplace with a merrily lit fire. A man stands there, with his arm on the banister, staring into the flames. Maybe it’s Robert Dudley, Arthur thinks, as he gives the man a doublet and a billowing cloak to draw around his body. By the pillar, another form takes place, a boy, hunched over with his knees to his chest, notebook propped up on his knees. 

Arthur is half-way through filling in the finer details of shadows and light when he figures Merlin must have finished moving in and has connected his stereo, because there’s a heavy bass thumbing rhythmically from the other room, then some worryingly intense and weird electronic beats that make Arthur grit his teeth, followed by dark, punkish vocals. Arthur can’t decide whether he’s more confused or annoyed, but he’s definitely not indifferent. He feels a newfound appreciation for Morgana and her melodic female goth pop. 

With a sigh and a curse for his new noisy floormate he furrows his eyebrows and concentrates on his sketch rather than on the music. Weirdly enough, after a couple of minutes, he slips back into a place where Merlin’s odd electro punk becomes a backdrop to his work. 

On Saturday evening, Arthur meets his friends at the Bowling lane at Bloomsbury Bowling. It’s their favourite weekend spot, partly due to the fact that Leon’s older brother works there and they get inside with the added bonus of an over-18 stamp on their wrists without getting carded, which also means they get served alcohol without questions. Even though the legal drinking age is 18 in the UK, most venues are pretty strict and fake ids only go so far, so Bloomsbury Bowling is their best bet to get something to drink. 

Usually, Saturday evenings are a civil affair. Leon and Arthur’s other close friend Lancelot play rugby too and they are just as health conscious as Arthur, because raunchy Saturday nights ruin their Sunday training efforts. It’s rare that they have a drink too many, and so their evenings are mostly rather relaxed, just having some beers, catching up and playing pool. 

Tonight, Elena, Leon’s girlfriend of six months, has brought her friend Sophia, and it’s clear from the get-go that she’s playing at match-making her with Arthur, because the rest of them are already paired up - Leon and Elena, Percival and Vivian, Lancelot and his date Mithian, with Arthur and Sophia both solo. 

Although Arthur knows that Elena means well - having commented more than once on Arthur needing a girlfriend because it was a pity he was the odd wheel whenever they went out - he’s less than thrilled to have to spend his evening with a girl he’s absolutely not interested in. Sophia is nice enough and if Arthur happened to be straight, he would probably be all over here, at least for a night. She’s pale and pretty, with green eyes and auburn hair that falls in waves down to her waist. Her lips are very kissable, even Arthur has to admit that, and her laugh is charming. 

“Arthur will show you how to bowl,” Elena says as she hands a pair of bowling shoes to her friend and Sophia blushes and looks at Arthur from beneath her fringe, fluttering her eyelashes at him. She’s cute, Arthur guesses, but there’s still the fact that she has boobs and a vagina, and both of those things do nothing for him. 

“It’s not too difficult. And you’ll probably have beginner’s luck,” Arthur says, and Sophia smiles shyly, before sitting down and exchanging her heels for the bowling shoes. Arthur slips into his own shoes quickly, then waits patiently until she has stowed her shoes into her locker. For just a second he wishes he was out and everybody would know, so instead of Sophia sitting here, Elena would have invited a cute boy in her stead, and Arthur would actually look forward to spending some time with a complete stranger. 

He has considered coming out to his friends more than once, mostly in situations like these, where someone is trying to introduce him - the hopeless solo case - to a great girl they know. He also knows that if he were to come out, they would most likely feel guilty about all the times they tried to set him up with someone, and maybe they would pity him for being gay AND single and how that might reduce his chances of finding someone. He doesn’t want their guilt and he doesn’t want their pity and he imagines coming out to them on his own terms when he has a hot boyfriend, because he can then just pretend that the hot boyfriend turned him gay and that he hadn’t lied to his friends for years. There had been a lot of moments where he could have been honest, but he had chickened out again and again, waiting for that perfect opportunity when everybody would be happy for him and not angry that he had kept something so important about himself from them. 

“I’m nervous. I’ve never bowled before,” Sophia says as she closes the locker and shoves the small key into the tight pockets of her jeans. “I fear I’ll make a total fool of myself.” 

“You should have seen Percival when he first came here,” Arthur tries to assuage her worries, as he leads her towards their chosen lane. “He nearly hit the lane himself on his first roll because his thick fingers got stuck in the holes.” 

“That’s a mean lie, Pendragon,” Percival booms from next to Arthur and jostles him, as Sophia giggles. It’s a full-on body check and Arthur stumbles, because Percival is a brick of a boy - almost 6 feet 4 and broad as a freight train. Arthur regains his footing with a curse and refrains from shoving back, because he doesn’t want to appear like he’s twelve. 

Elena goes first, eager and competitive as always, and she crows out in triumph as she manages a strike on her first roll, doing a little victory dance around their seating area. It’s like this whenever they get together: Elena is frighteningly into all kinds of sports, passionately ruthless in her pursuit of winning and occasionally pushy in her endeavour to be the best at everything. Arthur hates to admit that she outran him the one time they went on a run through Hyde Park together. 

Leon goes next and knocks down all but one pin, receiving a double high five from Elena. Vivian’s two tries go off the lane into the gutter, and Percival consoles her by picking her up and snogging her, which makes Arthur roll his eyes because he feels uncomfortable with their display of affection and the way Percival grabs Vivian’s ass. He’s relieved when it’s finally Sophia’s turn, and he helps her out by showing her what ball to pick and how she should position herself. Both her tries yield a decent result and she captures some pins, leaving three standing and Sophia whoops and throws her arms around Arthur and presses a kiss onto his cheek. He feels himself blushing and is relieved when she lets go to high-five Elena, who is beaming and congratulating her friend.

They finish their game, which predictably Elena has won far ahead of everyone else and retreat to their booth for another round of cocktails. Lancelot and Mithian wander off to talk somewhere privately and Arthur watches them, strangely overcome with jealousy about how they are seemingly on the brink of something. It seems so unattainable to him, so far out of reach. 

Next to him, Sophia is exhilarated and flushed and she smiles at Arthur as she sits way too close. At some point, her small hand slips onto his thigh under the table, and Arthur stiffens uncomfortably, feeling trapped. Her hand is hot through the fabric of his jeans and he starts to sweat with unease. He doesn’t look at her as he excuses himself for the loo, and then all but runs off. 

The washroom is fortunately empty and he soaks his burning face with ice-cold water and wonders if it will look very suspicious if he claims that he feels very tired and leaves for the safety of home. 

When the door to the bathroom opens, it’s Leon, and Arthur straightens from where he’s hunched over the sink. Leon looks apologetic and slightly embarrassed as he steps up to the urinals and unzips his pants, talking at Arthur over his shoulder. 

“I’m sorry. I told Elena she should stop with the match-making. She means well,” he says, coming straight to the point. There’s not beating around the bush with Leon, he’s usually pretty straight forward. 

Arthur offers a weak smile and uncurls his wet fingers from the sink, brushing them through his hair. “I know. I’m not angry.” 

“She just wants to see you happy. I told her, it will happen in your own time, but… she just really likes you and she doesn’t understand …” Leon trails off, and Arthur winces, the unspoken truth of the situation hanging between them. Arthur knows that Leon suspects that he doesn’t like girls, because they have been friends since they were twelve, and in all this time, Arthur never had a girlfriend. So far, Leon hasn’t pushed, clearly waiting for Arthur to be honest with him. Or maybe Leon doesn’t want to anger him by falsely accusing him of being gay. In any case, they have never talked about it and Arthur wouldn’t even know how to start. 

Arthur averts his eyes and washes his hands once more, before drying them on a paper towel. 

“Sophia’s sweet, I guess,” he says, and Leon nods. “If you like pouty brunettes.” 

Leon makes a soft noise of consent. 

“What’s the situation with your new family, by the way?” he asks over the sound of his piss hitting the porcelain. 

Arthur tosses the paper towel into the wastepaper basket underneath the sink and straightens to look at himself in the mirror, grimacing at the frown that suddenly darkens his face at the mention of the impending marriage. “They moved in today. It’s so strange having people in the house you don’t know. Morgana’s thrilled though with her new room. And my step-brother to be is still weird. And loud. Awful music. Like the Sex Pistols met Steve Aoki and had a bastard child.” 

Leon chuckles and flushes, before turning around and zipping himself back up. “You should invite me over, I’m kind of curious. Or bring him out with us sometime.” 

Snorting, Arthur shakes his head as he imagines Merlin here with them, probably looking terribly out of place amidst Arthur’s jock friends. “That’d be worse than the one time I made the mistake to bring Morgana,” he laughs, remembering how Morgana had sulked in a corner of the booth all evening long, because she thought bowling was lame and she was disgusted by having to use shoes that someone else had already worn. 

Leon laughs with him as he washes his hands. “Come on,” he finally says, placing a damp hand on Arthur’s shoulder as he steers him out of the restroom, “I’ll try and keep Sophia off your back for the rest of the evening.” 

Relieved, Arthur allows Leon to lead him back outside towards their table. Leon slides into the spot Arthur vacated earlier, next to Sophia, elegantly putting an end to any incidental touching on Sophia’s part. 

Arthur catches the soft frown that steals over Elena’s face as Leon sits down next to Sophia, but Leon just answers her stare with a soft gaze of his own - some silent communication going on between them - , and Elena’s scowl lightens. She bites her lip and glances briefly at Arthur, looking confused and disappointed. Then Vivian says something surprisingly funny and out of left-field - wonders will never cease to exist - and everyone laughs and Elena obviously forgets about her thwarted match-making efforts, because when Arthur next catches her eyes, she’s smiling at him. 

Arthur sleeps in on Sunday and then leaves for a run before breakfast. It has finally stopped raining throughout the night and the air is fresh and clear and the perfect temperature for a run. He jogs through Kensington Gardens on his favourite route, paying a visit to Peter Pan, like he always does when he’s in the park. He has been coming here ever since he was a kid, and he remembers visiting with his mother, looking up at the bronze statue of Peter playing his flute as squirrels and fairies looked on, enchanted by his music. She had loved to read to him, and the story of Peter Pan was one of their favourites.

It’s a good day for running, and his feet pound the gravel path steadily as he makes his way around the Long Water and into Hyde Park. He stops briefly by a drinking fountain on his way back and slows down after that, going through a couple of stretching exercises before he leaves the park, satisfied with his morning run. 

He’s surprised when he enters the kitchen to find Hunith, Merlin and Uther sitting around the kitchen table, having breakfast. Stunned, Arthur takes the headphones out of his ears and stares at the domestic scene unfolding in front of him. He can’t remember when they last had breakfast in the kitchen on a Sunday, it must have been a couple of years at least. Uther is sitting in front of the huge window with an empty plate in front of him, sipping coffee out of a huge mug, half-hidden behind a newspaper. 

The smell of eggs and baked beans is in the air, and Hunith stands at the stove, heaping sauteed mushrooms and grilled tomatoes onto a plate. 

“Arthur,” she says brightly, “come sit down and have breakfast!” 

Arthur blinks and frowns, as he considers his usual Sunday morning breakfast routine of fixing himself a protein shake and eating three hard-boiled eggs standing at the kitchen counter, while fiddling with his smartphone. 

He watches as Hunith puts the plate she just filled down in front of Merlin, who is slumped over the table opposite Uther, head cradled in the circle of his arms. 

“Don’t mind him, he’s not a morning person,” she says, her voice chipper, then hits the back of Merlin’s head with a smack of her flat hand. “Breakfast’s served, party boy.” 

There’s a groan from where Merlin’s face is buried in the sleeve of his wooly grey cardigan, but he slowly raises his head and looks bleary-eyed at the plate his mother put in front of him. There’s heaps of something that looks like scrambled eggs, baked beans and vegetables with a side of toast. It actually looks rather delicious and Arthur’s stomach rumbles. 

“Do you want something? There’s curried tofu scramble left, and I can make more eggs and we have lots more veggies.” Hunith steps closer and puts a hand on Arthur’s shoulder, startling him. She looks at him, her eyes so much like Merlin’s, intense and very blue, and her touch is warm and caring and he very much wants to not like her, but he feels himself nodding. He’s hungry and the food smells delicious. 

Smiling, Hunith ushers him over to the table and makes him take the seat next to Merlin. Uther lowers his newspaper for just a moment to acknowledge him with a grunt, and Arthur nods at his father, before his eyes are drawn to Merlin, who has started to shove the food on his plate from side to side with his fork, as if he isn’t really sure of it. Merlin looks a bit worse for the wear. He seems paler than usual - as if that was possible - and he has a truly awful case of bed hair; his curls are sticking up every which way. There’s something smudged darkly around his eyes, making him look a bit like a racoon, and when he moves, there are sparkles dancing on his skin and in his hair, which Arthur recognises as small bits of glitter. (He helped Morgana with a Christmas Card project once and she spilled half of a bottle of red glitter - it had gotten everywhere and he hadn’t been able to get rid of it for days, no matter how much he scrubbed at his skin.)

“Coffee?” Hunith asks, but she puts a mug down in front of him already, like she knew he wouldn’t refuse. 

“Thank you,” he says softly and picks it up, breathing in the scent with relish. Behind him, he hears the sizzle of frying eggs, and then Hunith sits down next to him. 

“You went for a morning run?” she asks, looking at the sweat stains on his functional t-shirt, and when he confirms her question with another nod, she smiles and adds, “You should take Merlin with you. He would certainly profit from having some kind of regular workout.” 

Next to Arthur, Merlin grunts and pokes at a mushroom. “I get my workouts just fine, thanks, Mum.”

“I don’t consider ‘shaking your arse’ a workout,” Hunith replies sweetly and takes a sip from her own mug, grinning at her son over its rim.

“I wasn’t necessarily talking about those kind of workouts,” Merlin counters with a leer that leaves no misinterpretation to what he means, and Arthur, who made the mistake of taking a sip from his coffee, chokes and splutters, looking from mother to son, startled by their candid conversation. 

“Oh, we totally mean the same thing, dear,” Hunith responds calmly and then gets up to flip the eggs out of a pan and onto a plate and Arthur just barely suppresses the sharp inhale at her words. If he ever thought to wonder where Merlin got his snark and humour from, it’s obviously his mother. Who just outsassed her son. Point to Hunith, Arthur thinks. 

Uther, who hasn’t participated in the conversation so far lowers his newspaper and raises an unimpressed and disapproving eyebrow at Merlin, but doesn’t say a thing as he picks up his mug and sips his coffee. 

Merlin is still glaring and poking at his food, but he doesn’t utter a comeback, his back hunched tensely. Hunith puts a plate in front of Arthur and presses a fork and knife into his hands. Arthur thanks her and starts eating, not wanting to look in Merlin’s direction, but unable to steal little glances. The implications are there; Merlin, out at some club or party, getting drunk and having sex. Arthur shoves another fork of eggs into his mouth, trying not to picture it in his mind, but his mind goes there, as it’s prone to do with Merlin. He shifts in his seat, trying desperately to concentrate on his food and not on the vision of Merlin, swaying to some beat, laughing and flirting and being sexy and fucking someone semi-public. 

“I need to get ready for work,” Merlin mutters and shoves back his chair, picking up his now empty plate - apparently he has polished it off while Arthur was busy trying to calm himself down - and walking over to the dishwasher, where he deposits it in the rack. The dishes clatter as they nearly slip from his hand and Arthur winces at the sound. 

“You _need_ to wash that gloop off your face at least,” Hunith says and steps towards him, smoothing down his wild hair. “And please, change your shirt, or Gaius’s customers will have a series of heart attacks.” 

Arthur only now looks at the shirt Merlin is wearing, a simple white one with black font. He squints at the writing, snorting when he deciphers, “I’m pretty much an awful and horny piece of trash.” 

“That gloop is your rotten eyeliner. I can’t help that it smears when I sweat,” Merlin says petulantly, ducking away so her fingers slide from his hair. 

Uther has lowered his newspaper again and this time it’s definitely a glare he bestows in Merlin’s direction, but once more he doesn’t comment, just shakes out his paper and goes back to reading the Business section. 

“You could buy your own make-up, if mine offends so much.” Hunith rolls her eyes and wipes at Merlin’s face with her fingers. “Now go and wash your face and change the shirt, so people will at least believe you’re a decent young man.”

Something connects in Arthur’s mind then, and he nearly inhales a bean down his windpipe as the pieces come together unbidden to form a conclusion. The way Merlin’s eyes seem to linger just that tad too long to be comfortable. His keyboard, which is called Boyfriend. _Oh God, you’re a bit of an idiot, aren’t you? - shaking your arse - buy your own make-up._

He manages to just so prevent himself from having another coughing fit and reaches for his coffee with watering eyes. The images from earlier are back, only now they make his face heat even more as he pictures Merlin with other boys. Arthur winces and gulps down the rest of his lukewarm coffee, a litany of Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit running through his mind as he pushes all the ideas he’s suddenly having away. 

“I’m pretty decent,” Merlin says behind him. “It’s not me who smells like a third-grade gym locker.” It’s a clear personal attack directed at him and Arthur balls his hands into fists, feeling anger rise in him, lightning fast, making him light-headed and feeling stupid. He fights for a reply, feels it building like sickness piling in the pit of his stomach. 

“Merlin!” Hunith sounds shocked and angry. “What is wrong with you?” 

Uther lowers his newspaper again and this time he puts it down for good. He looks like a referee at a football match, whistle already raised to his mouth to interfere and call a time-out, his eyes sharp as he takes in the scene before him. 

“Bet you only know how that smells because they probably shove fags into lockers back in Hackney, too,” Arthur hears himself say, seething, and the moment the words come out of his mouth he already regrets them, because that’s such a low blow, completely undignified and he doesn’t know what made him say it in the first place. He feels like he’s unable to deal with the wild mix of emotions he’s currently experiencing. He’s completely thrown off his equilibrium, because Merlin is gay and fucking boys and Arthur is so not okay with that.

It’s Uther’s sharp “Arthur!” that cuts the sudden silence that follows Arthur’s nasty words and Arthur raises his eyes to find his father look at him, clearly furious. There’s a dark vein pulsing in his forehead and his usual calm and collected demeanour has broken open. 

Merlin snorts and runs a finger through his hair. “I totally knew from the get-go you’re a fucking homophobic prick,” he says, sounding derisive and Arthur can’t help but laugh at that, darkly and desperate. The shame hits, together with Merlin’s harsh words, and Arthur wants to go hide somewhere, wants to pretend the last minutes never happened. 

“Out!” Hunith’s words are sharp and she grips Merlin’s arm tightly, as she pulls him from the kitchen. “You deal with your son, I will deal with mine,” she says to Uther, and her eyes are a stormy gray. She all but marches Merlin from the room and it should look funny, because Merlin has about seven inches on her, but Merlin is biting his lip and he looks like someone who knows he’s going to receive the dressing down of a lifetime. 

The kitchen is silent once the two of them are outside, and Arthur swallows and sits tensely, waiting for Uther to say something. He doesn’t, and the silence grows, until Arthur hesitantly raises his eyes to meet his father’s. 

There’s disappointment written on Uther’s face and Arthur cringes, because it would feel better if Uther was angry, like Hunith, all sharp, shocked anger and tight-lipped words. 

“I’m surprised,” is what Uther finally says. “I wouldn’t have expected such a slur to come from you. Not with your leftist political views, anyway.” They have never seen eye to eye on politics, because Uther is a conservative, and Arthur thinks it’s a bit hilarious that Uther calls on his liberal views now to reprimand him. 

“He’s annoying,” Arthur says, and pushes his half-finished plate away. He isn’t hungry anymore and in fact feels a headache coming. 

“You don’t have to approve of his lifestyle, but I expect you to be civil. You’re living together now,” Uther says, picking up his mug and cradling it in his fingers. 

Arthur snorts and wipes a hand over his eyes. He suddenly feels tired and drained. There’s a reason he hasn’t come out to his father yet and it’s fucking ridiciulous that Uther seems to be so understanding when it’s someone else’s son. So far, Uther has always made it clear what he thinks of homosexuals and it hasn’t been very favourable. He wonders how Uther would react if Arthur told him that he shared Merlin’s sexual orientation - would Uther still be so understanding? 

“I’m sorry, father,” Arthur mutters, and Uther just nods and says, “Just don’t let it happen again. Be the bigger person and don’t let yourself be provoked.” He picks up his newspaper and just like that, Arthur knows he’s dismissed. 

He gets up and clears his plate, putting it into the dishwasher. He grabs a bottle of water from the fridge and excuses himself, retreating up to his room. There are raised voices coming from the living room, but he walks past the door quickly and climbs the stairs two steps at a time, not wanting to hear anything that is said. 

In his room he drops onto his unmade bed and thinks of Merlin’s face when he hissed an insult back at him, his angry blue eyes and the way his lips pressed together in displeasure. He thinks of Merlin’s hands, harsh on him, as he shoves him into a wall or onto his knees - his mind is not very particular about it. Of his mouth, that beautiful, plush mouth, bruising and biting as he kisses him. His long fingers, pressing and gripping and pulling. 

With a groan, Arthur stumbles to the bathroom and steps into the shower fully clothed, his fingers shaking as he cranks the handles and sets the temperature to cold. The icy deluge raining down on him is satisfying, and he stands there until his skin prickles like needles and he’s shivering. Only when his toes are going numb does he turn off the water. He leaves his sodden clothes in a heap in the cubicle and dries himself down quickly, before returning to his room. 

He has a text from Elena, asking if he wants to meet up at her house and have a movie marathon with Leon, Elyan and Lance. It sounds like the perfect way to spend the rest of the day and get his mind off things, so he replies that he’ll be there in an hour and promises to bring snacks. He feels almost like himself again when he leaves the house twenty minutes later, his backpack filled with microwave popcorn and other snacks he pilfered from Annie’s pantry. 

Maybe he will be able to forget what he learned today. Maybe he will be able to forget the ugly fight, the nasty things he said, the guilt that sits deep in his guts and churns there, making him feel slightly sick. Maybe he will be able to forget that he’s now living with a hot bloke. A hot bloke that’s gay and still unattainable. Arthur’s life is seriously unfair.


	3. Part 1: 2014 - Chapter 3

Things only get worse from there; the uneasiness that has been present whenever Merlin and Arthur have been together in the past is nothing compared to the almost unbearable tension in the room now. Family dinner on Thursday feels like a battlefield, even though neither of them say a single word. 

Arthur is unenthusiastically pushing his food around on his plate, pretending not to notice the way Merlin is staring at him from across the table, his eyes dark and mocking, like he knows something that Arthur doesn’t and it’s on the tip of his tongue to let the whole table know. 

Morgana is chatting happily with Hunith about the wedding, delighted to hear that Uther has somehow managed to book The Olde Bell for the reception on short notice. Arthur is pretty sure that a not inconsiderable amount of money assured the booking, because it can’t be that easy getting a top wedding location near London just six weeks in advance. Or maybe, Uther has planned this for months already, which would be even worse than him sleazily buying out another wedding party. 

After dinner, Arthur moves upstairs to his room to watch TV. He’s halfway through the second episode of Orphan Black when there’s a shriek from outside, then Morgana’s giggles float through the tilted window, shortly followed by a lower laugh that Arthur recognises as Merlin’s. Arthur worries his lip and wills the frown on his face to go away. Merlin and Morgana have been thick as thieves for the last couple of days, always together, whispering and laughing. If Arthur didn’t know better now, he would be sure Merlin was trying to get into Morgana’s pants with all the attention he gives her. Morgana’s betrayal feels even worse - she’s openly fraternising with the enemy, because Arthur has decided that that is what Merlin is. 

There’s a thump from the roof outside and then music starts drifting in through the open window, drowning out the sound of Tatiana Maslany talking. With a growl, Arthur pauses the show, gets up and opens his window, clambering out onto the roof. While Morgana’s - now Merlin’s room - is the one with direct roof access, you can easily climb onto the roof from Arthur’s room as well, if you’re athletic enough to pull yourself up and aren’t afraid of heights. Arthur carefully slides down towards the eave that runs underneath his window and climbs over the small wall that separates his part of the roof from the flat terrace on the other side. 

Both Merlin and Morgana look up from where they are sitting with their backs against the wall when Arthur jumps down to land on the terrace in front of them. There’s a small portable speaker sitting next to them, the source of the loud music, and Morgana balances an ashtray on her knees. She’s smoking, and it makes Arthur even angrier, fueling his displeasure. He has caught her smoking before, and he had made it pretty clear what he thought of it. Apparently, his reprimand then hasn’t been successful in tethering her from smoking again.

“Turn the music down! You’re not the only people existing in the world,” Arthur growls and he mostly glares at Merlin, because he’s sure that he’s to fault that Morgana is sitting there with a cigarette in her hand. He just knew Merlin was a bad influence.

Morgana rolls her eyes and takes a drag from her cigarette, blowing out the smoke almost aggressively as she looks him up and down. “Jesus, Arthur, I don’t know what crawled up your arse and died lately, but your bad mood is really getting on my nerves.” 

Arthur grits his teeth and is preparing to give her a stern dressing down, but then Merlin quips, his eyes once again holding that mocking quality and maybe just a hint of cruel retaliation, “Maybe he needs to get laid.” 

Morgana snorts and giggles, and Arthur feels not unlike a couple of days ago over breakfast in the kitchen, because his anger rises so quickly to the surface that he’s feeling faint. How dare he? 

“Maybe you need to shut up,” he hisses sharply, taking a step forward, his fists balled at his side. He’s vibrating with anger and he’s kind of scared of the intensity of his emotion. 

Merlin has gotten to his feet and taken a step forward too, and now they are face-to-face. Merlin’s eyes are blazing, his nose wrinkled with displeasure. “No, you shut up,” he says, sounding just as livid, “who asked you to come here and start barking at us? Go mind your own business.” 

“You live under this roof. How can it be not my business that you’re a twat?” Arthur retorts. 

“Fuck, you must really feel threatened,” Merlin mocks with a sneer, his nostrils flaring, “what are you? Afraid the nancy boy is contagious and you catch the gay? Imagine the horror, you might want to suck cock all of a sudden.” 

Arthur briefly closes his eyes and breathes through his nose. Anger seethes in him and his muscles tense up, prepping for a fight. He’s not a violent person, but Merlin brings something out in him that’s making him reconsider his stance on pacifism. 

“Seriously,” Morgana says from behind them, sounding annoyed, “you two are utterly ridiculous. Cut it out.” 

Morgana’s words have the desired effect and Arthur relaxes slightly, the burning anger coursing through his limbs slipping away as shame replaces it and he returns from the brink of explosion. He has an idea why Merlin makes him feel so unhinged and it has definitely to do more with Merlin’s blue eyes and plush lips and his disgustingly handsome profile than with the fact that he’s mouthy and irritating. 

They stare at each other, Merlin biting his lip, scowling, but thankfully not saying anything else. His eyes are narrowed and there’s a curious expression on his face, like he’s still anticipating a fight. 

Something like anger curls low in Arthur’s stomach, only it’s not anger exactly, but just as sharp. He swallows soundly and looks away from Merlin’s intense gaze, before shouldering past him towards where Morgana is still sitting with her knees pulled up, rolling her eyes. He reaches for Morgana’s cigarette, taking it out of her hand and stubbing it out in the ashtray. “You shouldn’t smoke just because of peer pressure,” he says hoarsely. 

“Oi!”, Morgana hisses, pushing his hands away. “These are mine, you idiot! If anyone seduced anyone else into smoking, it was me who made Merlin smoke!” 

“Even better,” Arthur mutters, “because then I feel absolutely no shame in doing this.” He picks up the pack that is lying next to her feet, hauling it down into the street, making Morgana cry out like a wounded beast. 

Arthur ignores her angry wailing and the curse words she hauls at his back and walks back towards where Merlin is still standing with a puzzled frown on his face, his lip ring sucked into his mouth as he kneads his lips, something Arthur is slowly learning he does when he’s thinking hard. 

“You’ve had your fun. Now back off,” Merlin says, sounding marginally more calm than earlier. 

“We have a completely different definition of fun, my friend,” Arthur mutters, rolling his eyes at Merlin and attempting to shoulder past him. He startles when Merlin’s fingers curl around his biceps.

“We definitely have a different definition of friend, too,” Merlin shoots back, looking intently at him. 

“Oh, right,” Arthur says, shaking Merlin’s hand off, “my bad. Consider me a frenemy, then.” 

“Done!” Merlin says mock-cheerfully, “Homophobic prats aren’t my style of friends, anyway.”

“You should shake on it!” Morgana pipes up from behind, obviously recovered from her earlier anger. 

Arthur sends an unimpressed glare over his shoulder at his sister, before once more turning towards Merlin, leaning in close to whisper into his ear. “Just because my sister likes you, doesn’t mean you’re welcome in our lives.” 

“Believe me,” Merlin says sarcastically, “I’d rather be somewhere else.” 

“That makes two of us then,” Arthur mutters, brushing past Merlin to climb back up onto the slated roof, making his way back towards his own window with practiced ease. He slides back into his room, glad to hear that Merlin or Morgana must have turned the music down. 

He lies back down onto his bed and turns the show back on, but he can’t concentrate on anything that is happening. His heart is beating too quickly in his chest and there’s a strange mix of emotions making his chest feel tight and constricted. His mind replays the confrontation with Merlin, his angry snarl and blazing eyes and Arthur is so done with feeling confused and angry and turned on. He doesn’t know what he’d like to do more, punch Merlin for all his insolent words or mocking looks or make him shut up in another, infinitely more satisfying way. 

Two nights later finds Arthur coming down into the kitchen for a midnight snack to replenish his energy levels. He hasn’t had enough to eat today, and his stomach has been rumbling for the last hour, reminding him that he needs to fill up on carbohydrates before his next training session the next morning. School starts up on Monday and the first game is only two weeks away - he ought to be fighting fit for the rugby season and following his diet is one part of ensuring that he is well equipped for it.

He’s surprised to find the lights are on downstairs and when he steps into the kitchen, he finds Merlin there, sitting on the counter next to the fridge, an open tub of ice cream between his legs. 

It’s too late to leave again, and anyway, he really needs carbs, but the sight of Merlin still makes him stop dead in the middle of the room. 

“Hi there, … frenemy!” Merlin greets him cheerfully, a huge smile on his face as he crams a spoonful of lupine vanilla ice cream into his mouth. At first Arthur thinks he’s not wearing any trousers, but then he glimpses the really tiny shorts Merlin is wearing. His legs look a mile long and are very pale.

Arthur blinks, because the last time they interacted with each other, they were practically at each other’s throats and Merlin’s enthusiastic greeting seems slightly off.

“Err… hi,” Arthur stutters and warily takes Merlin in. His hair is its usual wild mess and his cheekbones are streaked with something glittery, making them look even more exotic than usual. His naked thighs are bracketing the ice cream tub in which he digs around once more, scooping up a huge helping of ice cream. When he looks up at Arthur and says “Guess I’m not the only one having the munchies,” his eyes are wide and blown, the pupils large, the black almost drowning out the blue. 

“I’m not having the munchies,” Arthur protests and rolls his eyes as he starts walking past Merlin to the fridge. “I have training tomorrow, I need carbs.”

“Whatever,” Merlin mutters from next to him and moans around another spoonful of ice cream. 

Arthur suppresses the flinch at the frankly obscene sound, even though it travels through his body with a delicious shiver, and rummages through the contents of the fridge. How is Merlin able to elicit such a response in him, while being simultaneously the most irritating person Arthur has ever had the misfortune to spend time with? There’s left-over vegetable pasta from the night before which Annie made and he takes that out and dumps it onto a plate, before he puts it in the microwave. Then there’s nothing else to do for 2 long minutes but stand around in the kitchen, waiting for it to heat. 

“You should have some ice cream,” Merlin offers, holding out his spoon and practically shoving it into Arthur’s face. Some of the cream drips and lands on Merlin’s naked thigh. 

“I try not to eat too much sugar,” Arthur says and crosses his arms in front of his chest, knowing he sounds like a spoilsport. 

Merlin snort-laughs, but it doesn’t sound mean. His fingers come down to wipe the melting ice cream from his thigh, before he sucks the dollop into his mouth. “You have such a stick up your arse, it’s unbelievable,” he mutters, shaking his head. 

“I don’t. I just give a fuck. Contrary to other people,” Arthur grumbles, and it comes out a bit breathless, because Merlin is still licking residue ice cream from his fingers with the tip of his tongue and he really hasn’t needed that image to fuel his already rather explicit fantasies. “Now move. I need a fork.” Arthur says hoarsely, because Merlin is sitting on the counter just atop the cutlery drawer and Arthur won’t be able to get inside if Merlin doesn’t move away. 

At his words or possibly his wavery voice, Merlin looks up and their eyes meet. Arthur sucks in a breath, because he doesn’t feel like he has control over what might be there to see in his expression, and sure as hell, there’s a slow, amused grin spreading on Merlin’s face as he regards him. 

“Ohhhh, it’s like that,” Merlin breathes out slowly, and he’s still grinning and his eyes darken as he shifts his bare legs apart ever so slowly, spreading them wide enough Arthur could get to the drawer, if he was inclined to do so. 

It’s unfairly erotic and it doesn’t fail to make Arthur’s blood run hot, but he grits his teeth and reaches for the drawer, yanking it open with a bang, the cutlery inside clattering. “Don’t be ridiculous. You must be really desperate.” 

He pulls out a fork forcefully and then slams the drawer back, making the counter rattle. Merlin laughs and he leans back, supporting himself on his free hand, his legs dangling to either side of Arthur. Damn, they are definitely standing too close, Arthur thinks, his blood rushing in his ears. 

“I’m not desperate,” Merlin quips and his grin is lewd as he leers at Arthur. “In fact, I shagged someone…” he makes a show to look at his wristwatch, a beat-up Swatch with a tacky neon wristband - and who even wears a wristwatch anymore? - “two hours ago. I’m fine.” 

“Good for you,” Arthur grunts out and takes that crucial step back. The hand that clutches the fork is shaking and he lowers it to rest against his thigh to make the trembling stop. In the background, the microwave hums as it goes through another heat cycle. 

Merlin shrugs and scoops up more ice cream, his gaze not leaving Arthur’s as he lifts the spoon to his mouth, his tongue flickering out before it curls around it. He’s making a complete mess of it, ice cream coating his lip, and Arthur gulps, unable to tear his eyes away from the display which he just knows is entirely on purpose now. Merlin holds his gaze as he pushes the spoon into the ice cream container again, then takes it into his mouth, sucking the ice off slowly, provocatively. 

Arthur’s hand shoots out without his conscious consent and his fingers close around Merlin’s wrist, pulling his hand back and the spoon from his mouth. He has stepped forward again, between Merlin’s still open legs. His knees bump the drawers. Merlin looks surprised and his hand goes lax in Arthur’s grip, his mouth parts. There’s still some ice cream smeared on his upper lip and Arthur’s eyes zero in on it, imagining himself licking it off. He unconsciously wets his own lips and sees Merlin’s blown eyes darken further as they track the movement of his tongue. 

The ding of the microwave announcing it has finished heating the pasta makes Arthur jerk, and he jumps back, slamming Merlin’s hand with the spoon down onto the counter top. The spoon flies out of Merlin’s fingers and splatters the fridge with specks of vanilla ice cream. 

“Don’t let my father find you doing drugs in his house,” Arthur manages roughly and moves to get his pasta from the microwave. His fingers are shaking when he reaches for the plate. 

When he turns back around, Merlin is still perched on the counter, his flushed face oddly giving Arthur some kind of satisfaction. For another moment, Merlin looks suitably affected, but then he shakes his head and grins. “I don’t care,” he says, and reaches for the ice cream tub’s cover lying on the counter next to him, pushing it back into place. “It’s not like I want to be here, or anything.” 

Arthur, who has already turned towards the door, stops and turns around again. Merlin has hopped from the counter and has his back to him, putting the ice cream back into the fridge. 

“Why?” 

At his question, Merlin freezes, then pushes the fridge shut and turns around, frowning at Arthur. 

“I just want to be home,” he says, and he doesn’t sound anything like the moody and rebellious teenager Arthur had gotten to know over the last couple of weeks, and nothing like the boy who just a minute ago fellated a spoon to get a rise out of him. He sounds about five as he stands there, his shoulders slumped. “I know that probably seems crazy to you, but I miss my home. I miss our crappy 2-room-council- flat. I want to go to school on Monday and see familiar faces. I miss having my Mum to myself.” 

Arthur swallows. “It’s not crazy,” he says softly. He knows how Merlin feels, because his own world has shifted and he wishes, it would go back to normal. He wants Morgana back in her old room and Thursday night dinner the only time of the week where Uther bothers with them. 

Merlin makes a soft, disbelieving sound. “Yeah.You must think I lucked out. I’m stuck with Mr. Goody-Two-Shoes in a Mews house in fucking Kensington.” 

“I’m not. You don’t know me,” Arthur mutters, feeling more wrongly accused than when Merlin called him a homophobic prick. 

“Still waters run deep, or something, right?” Merlin asks, and he looks thoughtful as he regards Arthur, his eyes travelling up and down his body with a rather shameless intensity. Arthur feels oddly naked, even though he’s fully dressed. 

He decides not to comment on Merlin’s latest transgression and turns around, leaving the kitchen without another word. When he’s finally up in his room, his pasta is cold, but he eats it anyway, his cheeks flushed as he remembers how he very nearly smashed their mouths together. 

[Interlude: Go for It (bonus scene from Merlin's POV)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28917312%20target=)

From then on he has Merlin on the brain. 

Classes start, and it’s bad enough that he sees Merlin at home now regularly, because they have a similar schedule and their paths cross all the time - in the kitchen for breakfast, outside their rooms on the landing or during dinner with Hunith (when she’s actually home and not working her odd shifts) - now he also sees him at school. They both start their classes at 9 on Tuesday and Friday, and even though it’s easy to avoid each other most of the time at school, there’s also the matter of the one class they have in common. Merlin has picked up biology, chemistry and Further Maths as his A-levels, the latter of which Arthur is taking himself. 

So four times a week he shares a classroom with Merlin and Arthur sits two rows behind Merlin, distracted by the way Merlin loiters in his chair, his stupid cardigans pushed up to his elbows and his wild hair curling around his ears, which, Arthur is satisfied to notice, are rather large and odd-looking, especially from that angle.

Fortunately, they share no other classes. 

Additionally to Further Maths - which Uther thinks is a total waste of time - Arthur has chosen Fine Art and Classical Civilization and History of Art. Law doesn’t require any specialised A-level subjects, so Uther has never really confronted him about his chosen subjects, as long as his grades are good. 

To Uther it has always been clear that Arthur would follow in his footsteps, every career step already planned out for him: First undergraduate, then law school, internships, then an associates position, subsequently a partnership, finally replacing Uther, who will then go into retirement. 

If Arthur thinks about becoming an attorney, he feels some part of him - the creative, animated, inquiring part of him - shrivel up and die. The thought of putting on a suit and arguing in a court day after day feels like a prison sentence. 

The applications for A-levels at Oxford have a deadline at the start of October and he’s supposed to apply there. It’s not what Arthur wants, though, but the problem is, Arthur isn’t quite sure what he wants. He never really dared to think about choosing a different career path than the one Uther has planned out for him. 

Telling Uther about his passion for art isn’t an option. Uther has made it very clear that he doesn’t want either of his children to follow in their mother’s footsteps. Ygraine Pendragon had loved art and had been very passionate about it, but she had never had any kind of recognition or commercial success and it had been hard on her. Uther had indulged his late wife, but he certainly hadn’t indulged his children. He hadn’t fostered their artistic talents and had never encouraged them to draw or paint. 

The thought of confronting Uther and telling him that he doesn’t want to follow the finely laid out path Uther has been plotting maybe even before Arthur was born is daunting to say the least. Seeing disappointment in his father’s eyes is worse than any punishment he could dole out. He remembers the days and weeks and months after his mother’s funeral. How his father was a mere shadow of himself. How every little thing made him go ashen in the face. If there’s one thing Arthur really doesn’t want to do it is disappoint his father and his father’s expectations of him. 

When Arthur draws, it’s in secret. His room is tidy, his drawing utensils always carefully put away, stowed into his desk or placed in a large box underneath his bed. He doesn’t dare show them to anyone, least of all to his family. 

So instead he keeps drawing. Architecture holds a special place of interest for him - churches and skyscrapers, mews houses and council living blocks, underground stations and office buildings. And between those drawings sketches of human subjects, faces, stances, movement, hands, eyes. There’s a particular set of eyes he’s drawing again and again, but he never gets them right. 

It irks him, this elusiveness, so he keeps trying. It’s not difficult when all he can think about is Merlin.


	4. Part 1: 2014 - Chapter 4

With school starting back up and rugby team training twice a week in addition to the other training sessions he puts himself through, there is no way for Arthur to get bored. He has nearly forgotten over the summer how much school work takes up his time. There’s certainly no time left for lazing around, not if he wants to complete all of his course work and train for his rugby games the way he’s supposed to. Even though he stayed on top of his game during pre-season with regular once-a-week team training and a firm personal training schedule, the twice-weekly team training is physically demanding as they prepare for the first game of the season. 

After five days of being back in the rut, Arthur feels dead exhausted, and Friday night finds him alone in his room, nursing a sprained ankle which he hurt during training earlier today. Lancelot and Leon are equally dead to the world, and any plans they might have made for tonight they have rescheduled. He’s listlessly rewatching Season 1 of Doctor Who because he can’t bring up the energy to look for something else to watch when a bang from next door alerts him to the fact that Merlin has just returned home, entering his room in his usual, noisy manner. 

Arthur steels himself for the inevitable loud music that will drone through the walls any minute now, because Merlin just can’t seem to be in his room without turning on his stereo or fiddling with his instruments. Arthur still finds Merlin’s musical tastes extremely questionable, and who listens to a band called _Shitdisco_ , anyway? 

He’s pleasantly surprised when no music starts. It’s after nine, anyway, maybe Merlin is tired as well. After all, he just transferred to a new school with new subjects and new teachers and new students, who are probably all grilling him about his old school and reason for transferring. 

Arthur’s ankle throbs and he shifts, carefully reapplying the cold pack he took from the freezer to his sore ankle and lies back down on his bed, his arms folded behind his head. On the screen, Jack Harkness is saving Rose as she hangs from a rope attached to a Zeppelin in the middle of the London Blitz. Arthur simply loves Jack - he might be his favourite companion on Doctor Who, because Jack Harkness has it all, the looks, the sass, the sex. 

There’s a thump from behind the wall as something knocks over, followed by laughter. Two voices, one he recognises as Merlin’s, the other… distinctly male. Arthur frowns at the television screen and bites his lip, slightly curious about who Merlin has brought up to his room. There’s some loud talking as Merlin and his visitor argue, then silence. The action on screen commences and Arthur gets drawn into the story, momentarily forgetting about Merlin and his friend. 

He’s reminded of their presence half-way through the episode, because the noise he just heard? That was most definitely a moan. 

Cursing, Arthur glares at the wall that separates their rooms, the wall that they share and which both his bed and Merlin’s bed is set up against, because it’s the only long enough, windowless wall to put a bed in the strangely cut twin attic rooms of the top floor. More noises, some talking, another moan. 

The sound sends a shiver racing through Arthur’s body and he briefly closes his eyes, feeling heat rise from his center and travel up his body, flushing his face. 

“Fuck,” Merlin groans throatily, his voice clearly discernable through the wall, and of course it figures, he’s loud doing this as well. Arthur files that knowledge away, shoving it into a drawer of his mind to fuel his fantasies on demand. Another moan, more cursing, another thud. 

Arthur whimpers and reaches for his pillow, pressing it over his heated face, inhaling the comforting smell of laundry detergent and clean linens. The soundtrack from behind the wall lends itself to spur on his imagination though and Arthur can’t help but picture what is going on. The image just pops up in his head, unbidden, unfiltered; Merlin, lying on his bed with some bloke’s head bobbing up and down between his legs, his long fingers curled into the bloke’s hair as he’s getting his dick sucked, head thrown back, gnawing on the metal ring piercing his pouty lip.

Merlin makes the most obscene sound yet, a high keening wail that sets Arthur’s groin on fire and frustrated, he starts hitting the wall with the flat of his hand, indicating that he’s right here, goddamnit. He pounds the wall to the hitch of Merlin’s moans, perfectly in sync.

“Please, for the love of God, shut up!” he grouses, and for a second there’s blessed silence, before Merlin’s laughter rings through the wall, slightly hysterical and surprised. 

The noises are muffled then, but he can still hear the occasional moan travelling through the shared wall, Merlin’s little gasps and the occasional curse word. Merlin’s voice is rough and breathy. With another curse, Arthur starts hitting the wall again, and Merlin is ignoring him now or possibly getting spurred on by Arthur’s frustration, because there’s no mistaking the way he cries out all of a sudden, his voice hoarse, before there’s silence, at last. 

Arthur’s pants are suddenly loud in his ears, and he shudders, extremely conscious of the way his erection is tenting his shorts. His head is swimming and he totally forgot about the show he is watching, because his mind is replaying the devastating, wonderful, obscene sounds Merlin has been making. 

He nearly falls off his bed when his bathroom door opens all of a sudden and Merlin barges in, his face flushed with embarrassment, hair a wild mess, his torso bare and his jeans just so done up that they cover the important bits. Arthur’s mouth goes annoyingly dry at the sight of the dark trail of hair on his stomach leading out of sight. 

“Here,” Merlin says lowly, barely able to look Arthur in the eye, sounding a bit out of breath, “take these - and for fuck’s sake, stop punching the wall.” He all but flings headphones at him, which Arthur fumblingly catches. He rips his eyes from Merlin’s chest - narrow and lithe and so very pale - and dumbly looks at the headphones in his hands. They are the noise cancelling kind with foam-padded earpads and bluetooth reception. 

He jumps again when Merlin bangs his door back shut, feeling so very out of his depth, because he’s torn between disgust and being terribly turned on. Grumbling a curse under his breath, he tosses the headphones to the end of the bed, instead raising the volume on his laptop and concentrating on Doctor Who again. Strangely enough, he manages to calm down, his mind carefully blank. For a while it’s easy to pretend that nothing happened, nothing at all. 

It goes well for about five minutes, but then the noises from next door start up again and this time it’s even worse. There’s some more grunting and cursing, not Merlin this time, a deeper voice, and then the kind of rhythmic thumping of the bedframe hitting the wall that can only mean one thing. Merlin is talking, low, but steadily, and Arthur is kind of glad that he can’t understand what he’s saying, because the pitch alone sounds dirty. He should pick up the headphones and cancel that shit out, but he’s getting angry and annoyed. With Morgana in the next room he never had to listen to someone else getting off - and eww, now that’s a disgusting thought -, and this, this is just wrong, because now he knows what Merlin sounds like when he shags someone. As if it wasn’t bad enough that Merlin is the embodiment of every temptation Arthur has ever come across. 

The sounds and the rythmic thumping increase in both volume and frequency, and every moan and sob is accentuated by Merlin’s answering growl. When the other guy starts honest-to-God begging, Arthur finally has had enough, and he picks up his laptop and flees downstairs into the living room. He settles himself cross legged on the couch and puts his laptop on his knees, starting up the episode he has been watching again, his heart beating wildly and almost painfully against his breast. He feels weird - turned on beyond belief but also slightly manic, like he wants to take something and ruin it, as if only violence will help him calm down. 

He keeps watching two more episodes, only getting up for a glass of water. He continues watching as Uther comes home from some kind of charity event and he’s still watching as half-an-hour after that, someone sneaks past the living room and down the stairs to slip out of the front door. At the sound of the front door falling shut, Arthur realises that he has been holding his breath. He exhales slowly, a hissing, relieved sound, his whole body finally, finally untensing. 

He can’t look at Merlin, because everytime he does, he sees him as he looked Friday night when he came into his room: red-faced, wild eyed, tangled hair, half-dressed and deliciously fucked. The memory of Merlin’s voice rumbles down his spine like a touch, like a threat, like punishment. He sits all during breakfast on Sunday morning hard as a rock, listening to Merlin explaining to his mother about a new pedal for his keyboard and what kind of samples he’s been looking into for a song his band is working on. Morgana is listening with rapt interest while she shovels her third bowl of Weetabix into her mouth, even though he’s been going on about the perfect kind of siren sample for four minutes now. The subject makes no difference to Arthur’s dick - all he can hear is Merlin shouting out his release. 

The oats he’s eating taste flat and his coffee is weak and too cold. He gives up half-way through his breakfast because the hunger he feels isn’t to be sated by food and he excuses himself and goes upstairs for a shower. 

In the bathroom, Merlin’s presence is undeniable. On the counter, where Morgana’s collection of dark lipstick and glittery nail polish used to reside, there’s now a can of shaving cream and Merlin’s shampoo. His dirty towels litter the floor in various states of dampness - one from last night, another from this morning. The bathroom smells like his shower gel, spicy and masculine. 

With a groan, Arthur inhales the damp air, steps into the shower and decides to give in, before he goes out there and does something stupid, like accost Merlin on his way up the stairs and push him into a wall, reach for the hideous, moth-eaten tank top he’s wearing and pull it off him, possibly shove his hands into his loose jogging pants and wrap his hand around him. 

It’s quick and rough and oh so good, and it doesn’t take more than remembering how Merlin had grinned at him with that saucy, dirty smirk when they had stood so close in the kitchen with Arthur between Merlin’s spread legs, and after only a couple of hard strokes over his cock, Arthur nearly doubles over as he orgasms with a hard shudder, thinking of striping Merlin’s filthy grin with his come. 

He blinks as he catches his breath, a bit surprised by his own explicit fantasy, but feeling way too good now that the tension he feels like he has carried around ever since Merlin moved in has broken. He rinses himself off, then kicks Merlin’s dirty towels with his foot towards the laundry basket and dries himself off with a fresh one. He dresses quickly, feeling better than he has in weeks, and finds himself smiling as he hops down the stairs, taking two steps at a time, ready to return to the kitchen to fill up on more carbs before going out to meet Leon. 

He stops short just outside the kitchen, because he can hear raised voices from within, Merlin’s low and dark timbre and Hunith’s brighter, soft tone. 

“Really, Merlin?” Hunith is saying, and she sounds aghast and disappointed. 

“It was only that one time,” Merlin mutters petulantly. “I made sure you guys weren’t at home anyway.” 

“You’ve been living in this house for only three weeks! We had a deal, you and me.” Hunith’s voice wavers with barely suppressed anger and there’s the clatter of dishes being sat down on the counter. 

“I’m sorry I’m such a fucking disappointment.” 

Arthur winces at the bitterness in Merlin’s tone and he presses himself back against the wall. He shouldn’t listen to this, it’s clearly private, a matter between Hunith and her son, but he can’t bring himself to leave, too curious what they are talking about. 

“Don’t ruin this for yourself, Merlin,” Hunith says, and now her voice is soft and sad. “This is a good thing. Change is a good thing.” 

Arthur wishes he could sneak a glance around the corner, see their expressions, but he doesn’t dare move. It would be terribly awkward if he got discovered eavesdropping. 

“You mean, don’t ruin it for you,” Merlin says scathingly, hurtfully, and Hunith sucks in a harsh breath, but doesn’t rise to the bait. 

“You’re going to a good school now. A fresh start. You will be able to apply to the right medical university.” 

“Because _he_ pays!” It bursts out of Merlin like a force of nature, something terribly upset in his tone. “Is this why you marry him? For me? Are you whoring yourself out, so I -” 

“Enough!” Hunith’s palm slaps against the counter, making the stacked dishes rattle. 

Outside the door, Arthur flinches and closes his eyes, wishing suddenly he were far, far away from here, but not daring to move should he make a sound and alert them to his presence. 

“I love him.” Hunith’s voice is so small and sad. “He’s very kind to me and he makes me laugh. I know he sometimes seems harsh to you, but he can be very charming and witty. He talks about things that are important to him with such a passion for hours. He doesn’t look down on me because I’m a woman or a nurse. I really do love him, Merlin, and I’m sorry that I’ve uprooted both our lives. But I want to be with him. I haven’t felt like this since your father left and … and he wants to do good by me and by extension, you. Please…- just. Accept everything as the gift it is.” 

Merlin makes a distressed sound and Arthur can hear them move towards each other, shuffling of feet and rustling of fabric as they hug. Merlin’s voice is muffled as he whispers an apology, his mumbled words followed by Hunith’s gentle laughter.

Arthur exhales softly, slowly, shifting from one foot to the other. Maybe if he moves now, they won’t hear him and he can sneak away undetected. He listens for another moment, hesitant. 

Inside the kitchen, Hunith clears her throat, sounding wobbly. “Three simple rules, Merlin, just three. When you bring someone home, you’ll introduce them first.” 

“Mum!” Merlin protests, “it was only Gwaine, you know Gwaine!”

“I don’t care if it’s “only Gwaine,” Merlin!” Hunith cuts him off sharply. “You will not sneak someone up to your room and I don’t care if it’s someone you picked up at a club or Gwaine or Will or whoever.” 

_Gwaine_ , Arthur thinks, the guy he heard through his wall has a name now, and apparently, he isn’t a random hook-up either. Arthur doesn’t know how that information makes him feel. 

There’s silence, but Hunith is obviously satisfied by Merlin’s reaction, because she continues. “Number two: No drugs, you hear me?” 

“Yes,” Merlin mutters with clenched teeth. 

“No drugs, period.” Hunith’s voice is stern. “You’re far too clever for that shit. Third - You go to your classes, no exception. No sleeping in because you went to a party. I won’t accept it.” 

Merlin exhales softly. There’s another long moment of silence and Arthur feels anxious and caught, not knowing what is happening and if maybe now that their conversation seems concluded, one of them is leaving the kitchen and possibly stumbling upon him. 

The kitchen sink is turned on, running water, then the clatter of dishes. It’s Arthur’s cue for escape and he turns on his heel and flees for the entrance hall where he quickly pushes his feet into his trainers. He will get something to eat once he’s out of the house. There’s no way he’s walking into the minefield that is their kitchen now and pretend he didn’t hear anything.

The first rugby game of the season goes surprisingly well. They win with a 13-10 against Chelsea Independent. For a while the game is hit or miss. They score five points early on only four minutes into the game, but their opponent seems to wake up after that and puts up more resistance, threatening to turn the game around. They only manage to get the upper hand again at the end of the second half of the game. 

Afterwards, Arthur feels elated. Rugby Union Season goes from September to May and the first game after the summer always feels special and reminds Arthur why he loves the sport so much. Elyan, who scored most of their points, is surrounded by a gaggle of boys, grinning as his teammates congratulate him on his scores and clap his back. The mood is exuberant and Arthur hugs Leon and Lance and winces when Percival crashes into him, adding another bruise to the ones already forming. 

“Who’s that with your sister? Does she have a boyfriend, or what?” Percival suddenly asks, and Arthur frowns, turning into the direction of the stands, following Percival’s gaze to where the spectators are slowly emptying the stands. 

“Morgana?” Arthur asks stupidly at the same time as Leon leans closer and says, “That the stepbrother?” 

“The what now?” Percival sounds aghast and confused, looking from Arthur to Leon and back. 

“His father is going to get married. He has a step-sibling now. Seriously, didn’t you listen to anything?” Lance reprimands him, frowning at their friend. 

In the stands, Merlin and Morgana are slowly making their way down towards the pitch, where the family and friends of the players are gathering. They are talking animatedly, their heads tilted towards each other, and Arthur can see them laughing from over here. Then Merlin miscalculates his steps and nearly stumbles into a row of seats, but Morgana reaches out and grips his arm and catches him before he falls. He is a clumsy dolt, Arthur thinks.

“Merlin,” he mutters and rolls his eyes, and for a moment he just wishes that the other boy wasn’t here, because this is Arthur’s safe place, this pitch here, this game, and Merlin shouldn’t be here with his noisy and obnoxious everything. 

“They look pretty chummy,” Leon observes thoughtfully, and Arthur scoffs, feeling his eyebrows draw together in irritation at the mention of how well Morgana and Merlin get along. 

“Well, she doesn’t have to listen to him fucking his one-night stands,” Arthur blurts out aggressively and Percival snorts out a laugh. 

“Oh my God,” he hollers, cackling. “I don’t know him, but I already respect the hell out of him.”

“You would,” Arthur mutters darkly but without holding a grudge, because he is used to Percy being unable to read his moods at all and managing to say something insensitive or inane. Emotional intelligence isn’t really Percival’s forte and that’s partly why they never have any real and meaningful conversations, unlike with Leon or Lance. 

“I’m going over,” he announces and jogs over the field towards the sidelines, his feet pounding the grass. His ankle is still slightly sore, and he feels it ache now, after all the excitement from the game has passed and the endorphins have stopped rushing through his bloodstream. He slows down once he reaches the edge of the field, then comes to a halt where his father, Hunith, Morgana and Merlin have gathered, waiting for him. 

“Great game,” Uther says, reaching out and slapping his back, grinning as he does so. If there’s one thing that Uther unabashedly supports it’s Arthur’s rugby obsession, and he never holds back in displaying his pride. Arthur often wishes that Uther would look upon other aspects of Arthur’s life in that way. 

Hunith is smiling next to Uther, her eyes twinkling as she regards Arthur. “Please allow me some time to understand this game - I really couldn’t follow -,” she says, sounding genuinely embarrassed - “but from what your father said, you played really well.” 

Arthur nods at her words, but refuses to return her smile. It’s clear she wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for the fact that Uther and Hunith have decided to play happy patchwork family. His eyes are inadvertently drawn towards Merlin, who is standing beside his mother, his hands thrust into the pockets of his trousers, looking bored. Their eyes meet, and for a moment it looks like Merlin wants to say something, but then his expression shutters closed and he returns to looking bored as all hell. 

“Can we go have food now?” Morgana asks, sparring Arthur only a brief side-glance. “Seriously, the only thing that gets me through these boring-as-fuck games is the prospect of going out for food after.”

Uther’s scolding is drowned out by Merlin’s surprised and delighted laughter and Arthur feels his lips twitching, before he schools them in annoyance. So what if he enjoyed both Morgana’s rude and authentic outburst and Merlin’s reaction? 

“But I decide where we go to,” Arthur says quickly, before anyone can make a suggestion. “It’s Pizza.” 

“Pizza it is,” Uther confirms, and Morgana shrugs and looks pleased. 

“I’m going to have a shower, then we can leave,” Arthur says, and his father nods. 

He has the prickly feeling of Merlin’s eyes on him, and when he chances a glance, his suspicion is confirmed. Merlin’s mouth twitches and he pulls his lip ring into his mouth as he holds Arthur’s gaze. It makes a shiver race through Arthur’s body, those eyes, mapping him like they want to undress him. It’s a preposterous thought, but he runs out of ways to interpret the way Merlin is looking at him with his dark, mocking eyes. 

He spares a brief bout of anger for his father and Hunith, because it’s their fault that they are in this situation. He would be happily and ignorantly living his life, free of Merlin’s irritating and arousing presence, if it weren’t for their idea of getting married. 

“See you in fifteen,” he croaks out and sharply twists around to jog back across the pitch towards the players’ entrance. He feels light-headed and strange, wondering if he imagined Merlin’s intent, if maybe Merlin was simply pissed off about Arthur getting to choose dinner. 

Later at dinner, Merlin all but ignores him, wolfing down his fake-cheese Veggie pizza with an insane helping of Tabasco sauce in record time. Arthur half-listens to his father explain rugby to Hunith, occasionally adding an explanation, and watches as Merlin licks garlicky olive oil from his fingers. He almost misses when Uther addresses him, only looking up when Morgana kicks him underneath the table hard. 

“What?” he asks, feeling a blush rise to his face. Suddenly, everyone is looking at him, even Merlin, whose tongue darts out to lick at the corner of his lips and who has stopped eating in favour of looking across the table. 

“Your application to Oxford. It’s due next week, isn’t it?” Uther asks. “I wanted to know if you needed help.” 

Arthur feels the heat in his face intensify and he quickly swallows the bite of pepperoni pizza before he can choke on it. “Err...no,” he says quickly. “I… no… I have everything under control. It’s finished,” he lies. 

It isn’t. He has been putting it off. The application forms are in his drawer underneath a pile of sketches. He keeps shoving more drawings on top of it in the hope of forgetting they are there, waiting to be filled out. 

The guilt creeps up on him almost immediately as his father nods and looks pleased. 

“That’s good,” Uther says approvingly, and Arthur ducks his head and shoves a slice of pizza in his mouth so he isn’t required to say more. He chews automatically and quickly, before biting into the slice again. His heart is beating like mad and he feels sick to his stomach. He can barely register the taste of the pizza, but he keeps eating it anyway. 

Another opportunity to speak his mind and tell Uther that he has no intention of studying law has passed by, and the omission to speak up weighs heavily on him. He could have done it, here in front of the new family, and maybe Uther wouldn’t have been quite so disappointed, quite so angry. Maybe Uther would have held back with his anger and disappointment, for Hunith’s sake. 

Uther turns to Morgana and inquires about her new teachers this year and Arthur slows his eating. He still feels like gagging. When he finally looks up, the only person who’s still paying attention to him is Merlin. Merlin, who is biting his lip ring and frowning and who quirks his lips in a pitying smile when he sees Arthur watching, like he’s the only one seeing through Arthur’s bullshit.

Arthur sends a glare Merlin’s way, a clear request to back off his case and mind his own business, relieved when Merlin’s jaw twitches and sets in a hard line and he looks away, scowling, his eyebrows drawn together in a pissy line. It’s better, not being at the receiving end of Merlin’s inquiring gaze. He rather prefers Merlin’s animosity to both interest or compassion. 

Arthur heaves a sigh of relief and starts eating again. The pizza tastes like cardboard now, but he keeps eating until it is gone.


	5. Part 1: 2014 - Chapter 5

Uther and Hunith’s wedding takes place in Berkshire, in an old inn Uther has rented exclusively for their guests on a Saturday in September. It’s by all accounts a beautiful event. The day is sunny and hot and the reception is held in the gardens in the shade of several large oak trees. The garden and courtyard are beautifully decorated, the canapes and champagne first class. The party is entertained with live music and dancing as well as a selection of traditional and rather sexist wedding games that play on a variety of gender stereotypes.

Uther and Hunith look happy, dancing slowly to one song after the other on the dancefloor, unable to take their eyes off each other. Arthur hasn't seen his father like this in what feels like forever. There’s a constant smile playing around the muscles of his mouth and when he does laugh, it transforms his face, making him look ten years younger than he is. Arthur didn’t know Uther could smile like this and he grudgingly has to admit that whether he likes that Hunith is becoming his stepmom or not, she actually is making Uther happy. It’s a bit sickening, really, the kind of glances they give each other when they think no one else is watching. 

Arthur feels like the biggest spoilsport of the century, standing at the side lines and observing his father’s happiness, unable to replicate the sentiment. He doesn’t bedruge Uther his marital bliss and he doesn’t dislike Hunith, but the wedding doesn’t bring him any joy, it just cements the fact that his life has now forever changed. Hunith will be a constant in his life from now on as his step-mother. And Merlin. Merlin will be in his life, whether he likes it, or not. 

For a little while, Arthur entertains himself with watching the couples dancing to classical ballroom music in the courtyard and enjoys the fact that nobody checks his ID and he can have as much to drink as he wants. There are few people his age and nobody he knows, except Morgana and Merlin. The other young people present are mostly sons and daughters of Uther’s business partners. Morgana is the only girl in their age group and every male from fourteen to twenty seems to pile around her as she holds court like Scarlett O’Hara, dressed up in a rather beautiful gown and her hair in an updo, looking three years older than she actually is. Merlin is nowhere to be seen and has probably snuck off to brood in silence. He had grimaced at the music the DJ was playing like it hurt his ears or injured his delicate sensibilities and sauntered off, somehow managing to look like he just rolled out of bed in the weird checkered three piece suit he was wearing. 

Dinner is served in an old Tudor barn from the 16th century. Fairy lights are strung up in the old rafters and lit candles are placed strategically throughout the space. Arthur sits between an elderly relative of Hunith and a teenage girl four years his junior. The elderly relative is deaf, the teenage girl obviously highly nervous about his presence, because she keeps staring at him dumbly, but when he actually addresses her, all she produces are nervous giggles as she fidgets under his gaze. He occupies himself with having as much food as possible, which helps negate the effects of the alcohol he kept consuming all afternoon. 

He hits the open bar after dinner and wishes he had earplugs to drown out the horrible cheesy music the DJ is playing. When the DJ hits a string of Celine Dion, Whitney Houston and James Blunt, Arthur orders a fresh drink and escapes into the gardens to the sounds of You’re Beautiful, a song that never fails to make him retch. 

The fresh air feels like a very welcoming slap to the face and he stumbles down the stairs onto the green, surprised at the unsteadiness of his feet. The gravelly garden path is lit up by torches to its left and right and he keeps walking, occasionally sipping his drink, enjoying the cool breeze on his sweaty skin. He loosens his tie and rolls up the sleeves of his dress shirt and ponders retiring to his room after his little evening stroll, figuring nobody would miss if he were gone. His hotel room has a well-stocked minibar and he had brought his Firestick with him to plug into the hotel room’s tv. 

The gazebo featuring as the main stage of the marriage ceremony earlier today now lies dark and silent and Arthur has the sudden urge to walk inside and gaze out at the garden from the wooden platform, maybe sit down on one of the benches for a bit. He wobbles up the wooden steps only to find that someone else has beat him to the use of the place as a safe haven. 

“The terrible music finally got to you, too?” Merlin’s low voice greets him from the corner, and Arthur squints as he adjusts to the half-light, making out Merlin’s lanky shape in the semi-darkness. “Or has the sickening display of our parents slobbering all over each other made you seek refuge in flight?” 

Merlin is sprawled on the wooden bench with his feet up, but he shifts as Arthur gets closer and removes his legs, before patting the space he has just made available. “Sit down, and have a drink,” he says amicably and attempts to press a wine bottle he must have nicked from one of the tables into Arthur’s hands. 

“I… I’ve got something to drink,” Arthur stammers, indicates his tumbler and sits down, less gracefully than he might want. 

Merlin squints at him and then laughs delightedly and clinks the bottle against the glass Arthur is holding. “Cheers,” he says, and there’s a bit of a slur to his voice. He puts the bottle to his lips and tilts it, drinking deeply. “Isn’t that much left, anyway. I will have to brave the crazy awful music soon, I fear. You haven’t got anything else than that single drink, have you?” 

Arthur’s lips quirk at the mournful tone of Merlin’s voice. “No, I’m sorry.” 

They are silent for a bit, and Arthur nurses his own drink, occasionally stealing a glance at Merlin, who’s lounging next to him, his limbs loose and gangly. He has lost his jacket as well and his vest is open, his ugly thin tie hanging loosely around his neck. His shirt is half-untucked. The light from the nearby torches flickers across his pale skin. 

“Guess you’re my step brother now, there’s no way around it,” Merlin suddenly says contemplatively. There’s a trace of reluctant, resigned humour in his voice and it makes Arthur snicker. 

“Cheers, mate,” Arthur murmurs and they clink bottle against glass again. 

They drink and Arthur listens to Merlin swallow down some more wine. For a while they sit in silence, and Arthur feels sleepy, his brain void, his thoughts like flighty birds, scattered. He startles, when Merlin speaks, waking him from his relaxed near-slumber. 

“I feel like an arsehole,” Merlin mutters, sounding pensive. Before Arthur can ask him to elaborate, Merlin continues speaking. “Don’t get me wrong, some part of me is glad that my mother has found love. She’s been alone ever since my father left us, before I was born. That’s a bloody long time. Only… I’ve gotten so used to being the one person in her life.” 

He pauses to take another drag from the bottle and Arthur keeps silent, because he feels that there’s more Merlin wants to reveal. 

Merlin sighs, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. In the strange half-light he looks very young and very insecure. “I’ve gotten used to the fact that she needs me. And now, it feels like she doesn’t anymore.” 

Arthur bites his lip, mulling over Merlin’s words. “That’s nonsense,” he finally says. “You’re her son. Of course she needs you.” Secretly he thinks what he would give to still have his mother and how he wouldn’t want to share her with anyone else either. 

Merlin snorts out a deprecating laugh. “You must think I’m very selfish.” 

Arthur shakes his head. “No.” He means it. 

Merlin makes a clicking, disbelieving sound with his tongue, then lifts the bottle to his mouth again. “Sod it,” he says with feeling, “it’s empty.” 

“Guess we have to go face the music,” Arthur says, putting as much disdain into his voice as possible. 

“I’m not dancing to that, though,” Merlin counters and laughs, then pushes himself to his feet, before extending a hand and offering it to Arthur, looking at him from under his fringe of wild hair. Arthur hesitates for a moment, but ultimately grasps Merlin’s hands and allows him to pull him to his feet. They both stumble a bit and Merlin giggles as they sway unsteadily. Merlin’s hand is warm and a bit sweaty, but their clasped hands feel good, both somewhat right and deliciously dirty and Arthur shivers, before pulling his hand away reluctantly. 

They stumble down the wooden stairs and walk towards the courtyard, their feet crunching on the gravel path. After the darkness and stillness of the gardens, the barn is bright and loud and too hot and Arthur squints his eyes, trailing after Merlin towards the bar. Since Arthur left, the dance floor has thinned out noticeably, and the tables have emptied as well. Arthur wonders what time it is, but he bets it’s way after midnight. 

He waits while Merlin orders them both a drink, something cool and spicy smelling in a copper tumbler, mint leaves and a slice of cucumber floating admits the ice cubes in the glass. They find a vacant table at the back.

Merlin slides his feet up on an empty chair and sips at his drink and Arthur mimics him. The drink is tangy and slightly sharp, something with ginger and an underlying, subdued sweetness. It’s very refreshing and it actually manages to clear his head, despite obviously holding its fair share of alcohol. For a while they watch the couples dancing on the dance floor, but Arthur feels his gaze drawn towards Merlin more and more. 

Nobody should look that good with his clothes all rucked up, hair a bird’s nest and smudged eyeliner, but Arthur has a hard time looking away. No matter what he looks at, he finds something that makes his mouth dry: the glimpse of skin at Merlin’s ankles where his trousers have ridden up, the bony squares of his kneecaps pushing against the soft fabric of his appalling suit, the slim line of his hips, the bunch of fabric over his flat stomach, the way the shirt stretches over his chest, his exposed neck with the strong cords of muscles.

He startles when Merlin suddenly turns his head and looks at him, and Arthur wonders with a fair amount of panic if his interest is plain there to see on his traitorous face. 

Merlin studies him for a moment and Arthur feels himself start to sweat. He licks his lips nervously when Merlin puts down his glass and lifts his feet from the chair, half-turning towards him, waiting for Merlin to give some damning observation. 

“Aren’t you going to find someone to dance with?” Arthur blurts out, and it’s the most stupidiest thing he could have ever asked, considering that Merlin absolutely hates the music and that - apart from Arthur - he’s probably the only young gay man at the event. 

Merlin’s face twitches as if he finds Arthur’s question more endearing than insane and he scoots his chair closer, the sound of it scraping over the wooden floor unnaturally loud to Arthur’s ears. “Who would I dance with?” Merlin asks, his voice low and laced with amusement. 

Arthur shrugs and feels himself blush and masks his face behind another sip of his drink, which he hates to admit, has much more alcohol than he first thought and is making his head swim. 

“This is really not my scene,” Merlin says, still sounding entertained and Arthur snorts out a laugh. 

“What is your scene, then?” he asks, hoping he’ll be able to turn the conversation around, but the tone of his voice matches Merlin’s, betraying his intentions. With a bit of a thrill he realises that he sounds flirtatious. 

Merlin quirks his lips, looking somewhat pleased. “Electronic music. Guitars and drums. More beats per minute. Grinding rather than foxtrot.” 

It’s probably meant to make Arthur laugh, but he half-chokes on his drink as Merlin’s words conjure up images in his mind. 

“Maybe I’ll take you sometime,” Merlin adds relentlessly, and there’s a glint in his eyes that’s positively evil. 

“That’s really not my scene,” Arthur manages hoarsely, echoing Merlin’s words. He clears his throat, pleased with how he managed to give a comeback and probably avert a crisis. 

Only Merlin makes no sense when he speaks next. “Are you going to make a move?” he asks, and he sounds slightly vexed all of a sudden. 

“What?” Arthur asks stupidly and blinks, wondering if he missed part of their conversation because he’s too drunk by now. 

“Fuck,” Merlin says darkly and annoyed and rolls his eyes and then he grabs Arthur’s hand and pulls it into his lap, putting it right over his dick. 

“Fuck,” Arthur echoes with a squeak, feeling his blood rush south. Merlin is hard and hot underneath his palm and the thin fabric of his atrocious trousers is barely an obstacle. His mouth drops open and he stares at Merlin, who looks back at him with dark, serious eyes, holding his gaze like a challenge. 

“I figure if we get it out of our systems, you won’t be such a cranky bitch and we can go on with our lives,” Merlin says, and he still sounds exasperated, like Arthur is being a bother by merely existing.

“I… I don’t...,” Arthur stammers, because he doesn’t know how to answer and they are at their parents’ wedding and two tables over there’s Arthur’s great-aunt Matilda and his cousin Fred and he has his hand on a boy’s dick. Still. Because Merlin is still holding his hand and Arthur hasn’t drawn away. It’s the shock, he tells himself, nothing else.

He finally rips his hand away with some effort and jerks back. “I…” he says again, helplessly, then stumbles to his feet. “You got it wrong,” he finally manages and pushes his chair back, making it scrape noisily across the floor. “You got it wrong.” His words lack conviction, sounding lackluster even to his own ears. 

He flees nonetheless.

Merlin draws level with him outside on the gravel path towards the main building, holding him up with a hand on his arm. 

Arthur’s dress shoes skid on the gravel and he twists around, finding Merlin standing too close, biting his lip, his eyes wide and dark. 

“What?” Arthur asks, his voice wavering. 

He distinctly registers there’s a Psychedelic Furs song playing in the barn now, one of his guilty pleasure songs. He has a memory of his mother dancing to his song as she painted in her room, her feet tripping and body swaying to the electronic beat. It makes him wistful and emotional as always and he finds himself ill equipped dealing with the heat in Merlin’s eyes. 

“What?” he asks again when Merlin still hasn’t let him go, Merlin’s fingers digging into his biceps with hard points of pressure.

Merlin opens his mouth to say something, but nothing comes out but a soft exhale. Something clenches in Arthur’s stomach, tight and painful and then Merlin takes a step forward, crowds him up against the stone wall behind a tall oleander tree in a pot, and Arthur allows it, the breath rushing out of his lungs as his back impacts the brick. Merlin’s hands are rough on him and he looks desperate and fatalistic. He mutters a soft curse before clashing their mouths together.

Merlin’s mouth is wet and soft, his kiss demanding. The metal of his lip ring is warm, not cool, like Arthur expected, and when Arthur parts his lips, Merlin’s tongue is there, slipping between them. Behind him, the wall is solid, just like Merlin’s body in front of him, but Arthur’s so overwhelmed that he trembles with every swipe of Merlin’s tongue inside his mouth. 

When Merlin pulls away from the kiss, Arthur moans a protest and reaches up to slide his fingers into Merlin’s thick hair and pull him back in, causing Merlin to groan against his mouth and fist his hands into the front of Arthur’s dress shirt. Their bodies slot even closer together: Merlin’s thigh pushes between his legs, applying pressure and Arthur whimpers, embarrassed at how he immediately grinds down against it, his body searching for friction. Merlin doesn’t seem to mind, on the contrary, his kisses turn more filthy as he starts to suck on Arthur’s bottom lip, his hips moving forward into Arthur’s like he maybe can’t help himself either. 

It’s push and shove after that and they are pulling on each other’s clothes and hair, their fingers gripping and pressing. Arthur’s head swims, he feels drunk and desperate and he wants. He wants and he doesn’t know what, because his experiences with boys are limited to a couple of make out sessions and bad blow jobs he can count on one hand. They pale in comparison to the lovely, dirty, sexy grinding that is happening right now and Merlin is clearly so much more experienced and he terrifies him. Everything about what is happening right now is terrifying him. Merlin’s dick is a hard line against Arthur’s thigh, and the feel of hot flesh rubbing against him through both of their dress trousers makes him light-headed. 

Merlin draws back with a gasp and Arthur is surprised to see how blown Merlin’s eyes are, like he’s high. Merlin sucks in a soft breath, then his hands are fumbling at the front of Arthur’s trousers. The sound of the zipper seems loud even over their noisy panting and then Merlin’s hand is on him, slipping inside his briefs and gripping him just right and Arthur makes an embarrassing sound that’s half grunt, half squeak. Merlin’s mouth moves over his exposed neck, then upwards to his ear, tongue darting out to lick the shell. 

“I want to hear you,” he whispers against the shell of Arthur’s ear, his breath warm and wet and shivering over Arthur’s skin. 

Arthur gasps out another moan as Merlin starts to move his hand up the length of his cock, swiping his thumb over the head on an upward stroke expertly, like he brings boys off like this all the time. 

It’s insane; they are just standing outside the barn behind a potted plant and any moment, someone could come outside and walk the gravel path towards the main house where they are barely hidden. 

“You’re mental,” he grunts out, but Merlin just chuckles against his ear. 

“C’mon, Arthur, make some noise,” he says in that low voice, sounding amused. His hand is twisting and stroking, so warm and rough and good, and Arthur feels his legs turn to jelly as he grounds down against Merlin’s thigh, unable to keep in his moans.

“That’s it. Louder,” Merlin encourages him and bites his neck and Arthur can’t but comply, embarrassed by the sounds he’s making, reckless and dirty. Merlin grunts in satisfaction, then nibbles underneath Arthur’s ear, jerking him roughly now, the sound of his hand on Arthur’s dick wet and obscene. “You’re so hot,” he moans against Arthur’s neck. “Why are you so bloody hot? Seriously, it’s like someone wants to punish me…” 

He sounds desperate and serious and Arthur feels a hysterical laugh bubble up in him, but then Merlin twists his hand again and presses just so while he bites down hard on Arthur’s neck and Arthur’s so close already, so close, and he decides to hell with it and rides out his orgasm on Merlin’s thigh, letting Merlin’s skilled hand take him apart. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he breathes, shaking through his high and Merlin moans happily against his ear, whispering non-sensical words of praise. 

When he comes back down, Merlin is still leaning heavily on him, his face pressed into Arthur’s neck where he licks kisses into the juncture of Arthur’s shoulder. Arthur releases a shuddering sigh and Merlin takes it as a cue and straightens. There’s a grin on his face, his eyes crinkling. He looks even more dishevelled if possible, his tie completely askew, his hair sticking up on one side in little crazy tufts. 

“Fuck,” Arthur emphasises and attempts to straighten his clothes, his fingers trembling as he pushes himself back into his trousers. Merlin carelessly wipes his hand on his suit trousers, then reaches out and laces his fingers with Arthur’s. 

“Come on,” he says and he sucks his lip ring into his mouth, looking expectantly at Arthur. 

“Where?” Arthur croaks out, his voice completely shot. He’s confused and overwhelmed and Merlin doesn’t make it better with the way he’s looking at him, all heat and want. 

“My room,” Merlin says, tightening his fingers on Arthur’s hand. “I’m going to suck your dick until you call out my name.” 

“Fuck,” Arthur says again. It should have been ridiculous, Merlin saying it like that, completely unfazed and sure, but it just makes Arthur feel faint and his cock twitch with renewed interest. 

Merlin smirks his devil-may-care grin and pulls at his hand and Arthur stumbles after him, so in over his head.


	6. Part 1: 2014 - Chapter 6

Arthur wakes slowly and in increments. It’s too bright in the room and the light hurts his eyes and makes his head ache dully, so he presses them closed again almost immediately. The sheets feel different underneath his hands than he’s used to, cool, laundered and stiff. He’s at the hotel, not at home, he remembers. Right. The wedding. Uther and Hunith’s wedding at The Olde Bell. He drank a lot. Arthur sighs and buries his nose deeper into the pillow, willing his head to stop pounding so much. 

There’s something important tickling at his slowly awakening consciousness, but he tries to will himself back to sleep for another hour at least, because he might feel better when he next wakes. The mattress wobbles slightly and he is jostled as something both soft and hard bumps into him. The touch makes him jerk awake in an instant and his heart starts pounding wildly with panic as he opens his eyes, making the pain in his head flare up once more. 

Next to him on the white hotel sheets in a tangle of long limbs and messy black hair: Merlin. 

“Fuck,” Arthur yelps, unable to keep his panicked sound in, eyes wide as his gaze trips over miles of naked skin. “Fuck,” he says again as he looks down at himself, recognising how he is equally undressed underneath the thin sheets. 

There’s a soft, disgruntled sound as Merlin stirs and starts shifting on the bed, the sheet slipping from his chest and revealing his belly and the dark curls that trail down from his navel towards his groin. 

“Hmmm,” Merlin huffs, flinging out his arm like it weighs a ton and he can’t seem to lower it with control, then blinks his eyes open slowly, drowsily gazing at Arthur and yawning. “Mornin’.” 

“Fuck,” Arthur says again, with feeling, as he desperately tries to remember what exactly happened last night. He distantly recalls drinking too much and sitting with Merlin at one of the tables - or was it the Gazebo? and… shit, had he snogged Merlin outside the barn? 

Merlin is looking at him now, his gaze a bit more awake, eyes travelling over Arthur’s body with a casual possessiveness. “We sure as hell consummated the shit out of this wedding,” he says, sounding pleased. 

Arthur squeaks, panicked, his eyes wide as he takes in stock of his body and how it feels. He doesn’t feel… anything, just a hangover, but he can’t shake the alarm. 

“Relax,” Merlin murmurs good-naturedly and with amusement in his voice, stretching his arms overhead, causing his joints to crack. “I just blew you.” 

“Holy,” Arthur mutters and scrambles backward, hit with an onslaught of disjointed images at Merlin’s casual words. Merlin on his knees, pressing him up against the hotel room door. Looking down at the crown of Merlin’s head, Merlin moaning around his cock… Arthur feels his stomach lurch at the memory of Merlin’s mouth on him, sucking him down. 

“That good?” Merlin asks cockily and Arthur gets irrationally angry at his nerve. 

He all but tumbles out of bed, taking the bed sheet with him, not caring when Merlin protests and curses. He spots his trousers, then his briefs as well a one sock, and spends the next minute hopping around uncoordinatedly and pulling them on underneath the sheet, feeling Merlin’s eyes on him all the time. 

“Bring the sheet back before you leave,” Merlin says calmly, once Arthur has pulled up his trousers and snatched his dress shirt from where it’s tossed over a lampshade near the door. Arthur slips into his shirt with a curse, not bothering to button it up, before daring to finally turn around to face Merlin again. He’s hit with the image of Merlin turned away from him, sprawled out on the white bed sheets, completely naked, his dark head buried in his arms and Arthur nearly trips at the sight and how it affects him. Merlin is lovely to look at with his long legs, slim build and his round and muscular arse.

He curses himself under his breath, then flings the sheet at Merlin’s back, aiming so it at least covers his pretty perfect backside. He scowls at his thoughts and looks away, ashamed. Merlin grunts, but doesn’t say thanks and Arthur scrambles for his shoes, one of which is flung to the other side of the room. He pushes his feet inside, one of them sockless, and makes for the door. He waits for Merlin to say something else, but he doesn’t, and Arthur slips outside the room, hoping he’ll be able to make it towards his own room down the wall without anyone seeing him.

*-*

Once back in his room, Arthur takes an Ibuprofen and drinks two glasses of water, before stepping into the shower, trying to wash away the night and all his misinformed decisions. It doesn’t help that he starts to remember more things, miniscule things, but nonetheless powerful in its imagery and he manages to piece the rest of the night together gradually, his face heated and his cock equally affected. He turns the shower to cold and tries to forget how Merlin had brought him off with his mouth, before dragging him over towards the bed for more kissing, filthy and with the taste of Arthur’s come between them. His mind is foggy on the details after, but one image is clear in his mind: Merlin above him, both of them bringing him off with combined effort of their hands, shooting all over his chest, his face flushed, moaning, looking beautiful and abandoned. 

Arthur turns his head into the cold spray and scratches at his chest until he feels raw, then steps out of the shower to dry off, shivering. 

When he steps out of the bathroom dressed in fresh and comfortable clothes, his bed seems to accuse him with how it’s still pristinely made-up and undisturbed and he curses and goes to town on it, throwing himself onto the sheets and rolling around in them, messing up the pillows and sheets until it looks slept in. 

His stomach growls and he decides to face the brunch buffet Hunith and Uther had booked for the morning after. When he arrives, he’s surprised to see that almost everyone is already there, enjoying the extensive brunch buffet the venue has to offer. Uncle Gaius, the elderly man who runs the chemist’s shop Merlin is working at and who’s a distant relative of Hunith’s is also sitting at their table, raising one of his impressive eyebrows when Arthur stumbles into the breakfast room.

The tables are laden with all kinds of different breakfast classics, from typical English fare to Far Eastern specialties, an extensive sweets section with ready-made crepes and French toast, three different types of home-made porridge and a seperate table with fruits and a chocolate fountain. Arthur’s stomach skips at the sight and he decides to start out slowly with coffee and porridge. 

When he slides down into an empty seat at the family table, Morgana, who looks chipper and disgustingly awake gives him a knowing look and grins. He’s tempted to stick his tongue out at her but refrains from doing so, when he catches his father looking at him. 

“Had a bit too much to drink, did you?” Uther says, but his chiding is surprisingly gentle, like he feels proud of Arthur being able to hold his liquor and acting appropriately masculine. 

Arthur grunts and ducks his head, his mind reeling and his cheeks flaming with shame as he thinks about what Uther would say if he knew the truth. 

“Here,” Gaius says, pushing a little glass bottle over the table at him. “Take this. It’s my hangover remedy. I made a special batch for this occasion.” 

Arthur snatches the bottle from the table and pockets it, but has no intention of drinking the strange concoction. Uncle Gaius is one of the missing puzzle pieces to Hunith’s new age naming of Merlin as an impressionable, pregnant 19-year old, Arthur’s quite sure. The man is about 70, with yellowish white hair that hangs down to his shoulders and he likes to wear tunics. He would pass perfectly well on a medieval market as the local barber. Arthur thinks he’s a bit dodgy, but then the man is also frighteningly observant. 

He nearly chokes on his porridge when Merlin saunters into the room, his hair wild as usual but styled with effort, clad in black skinny jeans, heavy combat boots and a vest, the loose tank top he wears underneath showing off his arms. There’s a narrow black satin ribbon wrapped around his neck and he should look ridiculous, but as always, he manages to pull it off with his casual sensuality. 

Arthur watches Merlin walk the length of the buffet, before zoning in on the small vegan section, heaping vegetables and fruits, humus and falafel and olives onto his plate, before sliding into the seat opposite of Arthur with a cheerful “Good Morning.” 

“Morning, darling,” Hunith says from his left and reaches out, combing her hands through Merlin’s hair in an awkward attempt to straighten it. “Had a good night?” 

Merlin shakes her hand off, and directs a smirk at Arthur, before replying. “I did. As did you, I’m sure.” 

Hunith laughs and reaches out to ruffle his hair some more. “Well, we were among the last people to leave.” 

“And I had to carry her to the suite, she was unable to walk, she was so tired,” Uther adds, then leans over and kisses his wife on the cheek, the first open display of affection between them in front of their family. Arthur carefully keeps his face neutral, even though the gesture makes him feel panicked. 

“You both look good, considering you were up late,” Merlin says, shovelling a falafel dipped into hummus into his mouth. He eats with gusto, using both fingers to stuff food into his mouth, and Arthur can’t help but glare at him, because Merlin’s a smug bastard and obviously immune to alcohol. 

“Arthur is a bit worse for the wear,” Morgana points out cheerfully from next to Arthur and he doesn’t feel bad for kicking her shin under the table. 

“Really?” Merlin mutters, sucking on an olive and popping his fingers into his mouth, “I hadn’t noticed. He should drink one of Gaius’ hangover remedies - they help.” 

Glaring, Arthur pushes himself up from the table and decides to brave the buffet and have something else to eat. He’s fuming. How dare Merlin sit there and play nice with their parents and sister, eating olives in an unfairly obscene fashion, with a hickey visible on his collarbone that Arthur gave him last night, pretending like nothing happened? 

He walks over towards the Continental breakfast section and starts loading a plate with smoked mackerel, sauteed vegetables and eggs benedict, hoping the food will make his stomach stop churning. He’s just adding the finishing touches by adding a heap of sprouted greens, when Merlin stops next to him, plate in his hand, picking up some crudites and dips. 

He stiffens when Merlin leans in, bringing his mouth to his ear. “Hey,” Merlin says, his voice warm, low and intimate, “we had a good night. Let’s not think too much about it, all right?” 

“I’m not,” Arthur hisses, knowing he sounds caught. 

He more feels than sees the roll of Merlin’s eyes. “Now we got that attraction thing out of the way, we can just go on with our lives,” Merlin whispers, his breath ghosting over Arthur’s neck. 

Is that what it’s like for you, Arthur wants to ask, wondering if he was so bad that Merlin’s attraction towards him has passed already. 

“Right,” Arthur grumbles, feeling attacked when Merlin reaches around him for some fruits, his whole front pressing against Arthur’s side, his scent invading Arthur’s nostrils. That whole attraction thing? Still very much present on his end. 

Merlin pops a strawberry into his mouth and claps his shoulder, before walking back towards the table. 

For a while, Arthur picks listlessly through the assortment of dips, trying to cope with the feeling of dejection he experiences. Apparently, Merlin is all about casual hook-ups - something that’s not entirely news to Arthur - and maybe he’s right: Nothing will come of this, so it’s better to have it over and done with, so they can work on being step-siblings for the rest of their lives. 

It takes him ages to muster up the indifference he needs to return to the table, and when he does, Merlin and Morgana have left and slipped outside into the garden for what Arthur suspects is a smoke. He slides into his earlier seat and starts eating, surprised when he finds his appetite return after a few bites. 

Across from him, Gaius’s eyebrows are doing a twitchy dance that Arthur fails to interpret.

Nothing much changes after the wedding, but living with Hunith and Merlin becomes a routine and they all get used to each other’s schedules and establish some new family traditions. They still have family dinner on Thursday - only now there’s always a vegan option, there’s rugby and a visit to a restaurant on Fridays, Saturday night is for going out, Sunday for family breakfast and an occasional trip out of town. 

Arthur is busy with training and making art, filling one sketchbook after the other (his escape whenever he doesn’t want to think too much) and Merlin is occupied with working at his uncle’s chemist’s shop and playing music. They pass each other on the second floor’s landing or in the kitchen in the search for food. They trade polite words and behave appropriately during family meals and excursions. Morgana seems relieved that they aren’t at each other’s throats anymore. 

Only sometimes, Arthur will find himself staring at Merlin’s neck or his hands or at the small of his back where his t-shirt rides up and reveals the dip of his spine and the enticing dimples at the swell of his arse and he will remember. How Merlin’s hands felt on him, how his mouth was so soft and wet, how he tastes at the juncture of neck and shoulder and how his skin feels like velvet over hard muscle. The memories are hazy with alcohol, but once in a while an image or sound will surface with striking clarity. There’s no way around it: This is how Merlin looks while sucking Arthur’s dick. This is how Merlin looks when he’s aroused. These are the sounds Merlin makes when he comes. 

Two weeks after the wedding on a rainy Sunday afternoon, Arthur lounges around in the upholstered window nook in the living room, enjoying the sound of the pitter-patter of raindrops against the large window pane. It’s one of his favourite spots in the house that’s not in his room, and he likes to sit here with his legs pulled up, reading or watching the street outside. He’s just started reading The Canterville Ghost, one of his guilty pleasure books, because his mother used to read it to him and it always gives him comfort and makes him laugh, when Merlin walks in and flops down on the sofa with a grunt. 

Arthur briefly looks up, frowning at the way Merlin is sprawled face down on the large gray sofa, his arms flung wide, long legs splayed over the armrest dramatically. Merlin clearly wants attention, so Arthur bites his lip and goes back to reading his book, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of being the first to say something. 

It takes three pages until Merlin mutters, his voice muffled by the couch cushions, “What’re you readin’?” 

“A story,” Arthur murmurs, not wanting to admit that he’s reading a children’s classic. Maybe Merlin would laugh about it.

From his place on the couch, Merlin snorts anyway. “Really? I wouldn’t have thought,” he says mock-sarcastically. “What’s it about?”

“It’s a ghost story,” Arthur explains, turning the page and decidedly not looking at Merlin, willing Merlin to leave him alone. 

When Merlin doesn’t say anything, he looks over and asks, “Don’t you have anyone else to bother?” 

Merlin quirks his lips in a small, strangely fond smile, like he expected Arthur’s resistance and finds it endearing. “I’m a bit bored,” he concedes, seemingly not perturbed by Arthur’s tone. 

“So, that ghost story...?” Merlin prompts, then shifts on the sofa and swings his long legs over the side, sitting up. When Arthur glances at him, he feels a stab of heat race through him. Merlin looks good with his hair all dishevelled. He wears a dark-gray knitted wool jumper with a wide neck almost hanging off his left shoulder, revealing part of his collarbone. He’s stupidly handsome and sexy and his mere presence offends Arthur. 

“It’s The Canterville Ghost,” Arthur admits, carefully keeping the annoyance from his tone. He desperately wants to get back to his book and forget the enticing sight of his step-brother. 

“I haven’t read it,” Merlin says, sounding contemplative. “It’s by Wilde, though, right?” 

Surprised, Arthur looks up and nods. “Yeah,” he confirms slowly. 

“I love him. I must have read The Picture of Dorian Gray at least ten times by now.” Merlin pushes himself up from the sofa and clambers onto the window seat next to Arthur, cramming his long legs into the nook. 

“Read it to me,” he commands. 

Arthur snorts and pulls his knees closer to his chest to evade touching Merlin. “Get your own copy. Or you can borrow mine, when I’m done.” 

“I want to listen to it now. I think you should read it to me,” Merlin demands. “I’m going to reciprocate with a reading of The Happy Prince. Come on!” He knocks his foot against Arthur’s leg encouragingly. 

“The Happy Prince only makes me cry,” Arthur mutters, rolling his eyes at Merlin’s antics. Despite his earlier annoyance, he feels a smile tug at his lips. 

“Fine, me too. We can both cry, if that makes you feel better.” Merlin wraps his arms around his legs and leans back against the wooden panel of the window frame. “Now start reading.” 

Shuddering out a sigh, Arthur flips to the first page of the book, and with a last glance at Merlin, who is waiting with his eyes closed, a small smile on his face, he starts the book from the beginning. After a while, he even feels comfortable with the voices of Mr. Otis and Virginia. When he comes to the part where Mr. Otis offers the ghost a bottle of oil to help with his noisy chains, Merlin laughs out loud. 

He reads and reads and Merlin listens and laughs and then grows more silent as the story turns to its sentimental and gothic end. Arthur reads the whole book until his voice is hoarse and when he is finished, he feels exhausted and wistful, like always. He thinks of his mother and how she had read the story to him in this very room. 

Outside, the afternoon has turned to dusk. The house is silent around them, everyone else is still out. 

Arthur puts the book down and carefully looks up at Merlin, who still has his arms wrapped around his legs, his fingers twisted in the woolen knit of his jumper, head turned towards the windows as he stares outside at the cobblestone street. 

“Thank you,” Merlin says quietly, looking up and giving Arthur a soft smile, so unlike any smile he ever directed at him. It makes Arthur’s stomach flutter.

“I was reading it anyway,” Arthur protests gruffly, and Merlin smiles again, but doesn’t comment on Arthur’s weak protest. 

They are silent for a bit, but it’s a companionable silence.

“I didn’t take you for a reader,” Arthur finally says. “Party Boy,” he adds, like a particular kind insult. It sounds like an endearment. 

“Didn’t take you for one either,” Merlin retorts, his lips quirked, eyes twinkling. “Dumb Jock.” 

Smirking, Arthur catches Merlin’s eyes. “What do you read then?” 

“Lots of things,” Merlin says and wraps his arms around his legs, resting his chin on his knees. “Classics like Wilde. Dostojevsky. Wolff. No Dickens, though, he’s awful.” 

“Dickens is the worst,” Arthur agrees encouragingly. He wants Merlin to keep on talking, because otherwise Merlin will leave and Arthur has to admit that he’s enjoying his company right now quite a bit. 

“Some sci-fi. Heinlein. Herbert. Wyndham. Gibson.” It’s like Merlin is name-dropping, but Arthur has no reason to believe he hasn’t read the authors he’s talking about. 

“Dune is great,” Arthur hums in agreement. 

“The best,” Merlin says, enthused. “Have you read all the books in the series or just the first three?” 

“All six of them. But not the sequels by his son. Nor the prequels.” 

Merlin nods, like it’s the obvious choice to make. “I read some poetry, too. Which… well,” he looks embarrassed for a moment, “you saw me writing… I… uhm...” he fidgets on the window seat, “I write poems. And songs. Obviously.” 

“I figured,” Arthur says kindly, enjoying the way Merlin suddenly becomes shy and blushing, so different to his loud, boisterous cheekiness. “You could play something for me sometime.” 

“Oh…” Merlin’s face turns a shade redder and he ducks his head. “No,.. I don’t… I mean, you can come to one of my band’s shows, if you want.” 

“Okay.” Arthur is surprised how quickly he’s ready to agree. 

They both startle when there’s noise from below and they hear Uther, Hunith and Morgana return home, the clatter of their boots on the hardwood floor loud, immediately lifting the strange, comforting quiet of the early evening. 

Merlin gives him an awkward smile, before he pushes himself up from the window seat, unfolding his long legs and stretching his arms overhead. “Let’s see if they brought food,” he offers with a contemplative look at Arthur, before wandering off. 

Arthur sits quietly for another moment, looking at the door where Merlin just walked through, wondering what just happened. It feels like a milestone, like something fundamental shifted in his perception. Like just maybe, he and Merlin can be friends after all.


	7. Part 1: 2014 - Chapter 7

When Arthur runs, all his thoughts are focused on the next step, on the stretch of pavement or gravel path underneath his feet. He takes in his surroundings with a zen air, concentrating on drawing breath steadily into his lungs and the accelerated beating of his heart. He loves his early morning runs, when Kensington is still quiet and most people are still in their beds. He doesn’t mind getting up early on a Saturday morning for his runs, not when they bring him so much peace and make him feel so good. 

Today he felt particularly energetic, so he extended his usual Hyde Park tour into Green Park, past Buckingham Palace and the Victoria Monument into St. James Park. He reduces his running speed on the last mile until he slows to a walk to cool down before returning home. When he leaves Kensington Gardens, he’s soaked through with sweat, feeling the way he pushed his body by running twice the usual length this morning. When he returns to their street, it seems like the rest of Kensington is finally waking up: People are walking their dogs, getting their newspaper or returning from the bakers. Arthur stops outside their home, and goes through a couple of stretching exercises, cataloguing his body’s responses to the workout. He feels fine, great even, full of adrenaline. He’s just about to finish stretching out his calf muscles, when he sees Merlin walk up the street from the direction of the tube station. 

“Hey,” he calls out before he can help himself, and Merlin lifts his head from where he has been staring at his feet, a smile blossoming on his face as he spots Arthur. That’s a new reaction, and Arthur feels his heart flutter at the gesture, beating stupidly out of sync. Merlin has a great smile, one that produces dimples underneath his cheekbones and shows his teeth. It’s pretty cute, too.

“Hey,” Merlin returns and pounds up to him, like a puppy who spotted a friend. He looks dishevelled and a bit tired and his hair is a disaster, sticking up at the back. He wears dark-blue suit trousers, yellow trainers and a very strange sequined shirt in yellow and baby-blue underneath a grey leather jacket. Streaks of glittery make-up are smeared on his cheekbones and smudged underneath his eyes and Arthur wonders if that was a deliberate application or Merlin’s simply a mess after a night out. 

“.. had a good night?” Arthur asks, making sure to give a last stretch to his hamstrings on each side. He sometimes has problems with too tight hamstrings, especially since having a bad inflammation after an injury last fall and he clearly overstrained his leg muscles in today’s run.

Merlin shrugs and quirks his lips. “Dancing was okay.” He shoves his hands into the pockets of his tight trousers, revealing a sliver of tummy in the process as the trousers move down. Arthur valiantly tries to not look there, but to no avail. There’s a thin trail of dark hair underneath Merlin’s navel, and Arthur has the sudden desire to sink to his knees and bite him there. 

“.. that’s good,” Arthur coughs and jiggles his legs for good measure, trying to quell the urge to do something inappropriate and rash. “You must be hungry.” 

“Starving,” Merlin agrees, hopping a bit up and down, as if there’s still some manic energy left in him. 

Arthur rolls his eyes a bit at himself for finding Merlin’s restlessness endearing and moves towards their door, sensing Merlin step up behind him, too close for comfort. His skin is overheated, as if it’s burning. Sweat trickles down the small of his back and he feels disgusting. 

He lets them both in, then quickly crosses the entry hall and makes for the staircase, desperate for a shower. Just when he approaches the stairs, Uther’s voice calls out from the kitchen. 

“Arthur, is that you?” 

Merlin suppresses a laugh and lifts a finger to his lips. “Shh,” he whispers, eyes sparkling before sneaking past Arthur, carefully treading so his feet won’t hit the creaky places on the old wooden stairs. Arthur is reluctantly impressed that he already mastered that particular skill set. 

Sighing, Arthur turns towards the kitchen and pokes his head in, finding his father sitting at the kitchen table. “Yes, father.”

Uther looks up from his plate of sausages and eggs and takes in his sweaty appearance. 

“I see you’ve been out running,” Uther says, sounding pleased.

Arthur nods. He doesn’t want to come into the kitchen proper, feeling sweaty and in desperate need of a shower, so he lingers in the doorway, watching as Uther pierces another sausage and leads it to his mouth, before he continues speaking. 

“It’s commendable, your dedication to sport.” 

“Thanks, father,” Arthur mutters, starting to get impatient as Uther gets through their awkward small talk. 

Uther chews slowly, then puts down his fork and knife and wipes his hands carefully on a napkin, before looking up. 

“I talked to Peter Henley yesterday. He has a good friend at Oxford, who lectures at the Law Faculty. He will try to put in a good word for you during the application process - maybe get you an advance interview, so you can prepare better.” 

Uther looks very satisfied with himself and his expression indicates that Arthur should be grateful and happy for the interference. 

With great effort, Arthur manages to produce an obliged smile. “That’s… that’s great. Thank you,” he lies, even though he feels doom creeping up on him. 

“Good, good,” Uther says, smiling stiffly, before picking up his cutlery again and starting to commence eating. 

It’s one of his father’s clear dismissals, and Arthur gives another nod, before pushing himself away from the doorframe. 

The talk with Uther left Arthur feeling ashamed, as usual. He fears he will never be able to live up to his father’s expectations, because what Uther wants from him is so very far removed from what Arthur wants for himself. 

He trudges up the stairs, feeling bone-deep exhaustion. All he wants is a shower to get rid of the itchy stickiness of dried sweat and his own disappointment, which feels like another layer of dirt caked to his skin. He walks into the bathroom, ripping his shirt off on his way in and tossing it in the direction of the laundry basket, before stopping dead in his tracks. 

The shower is already running and occupied. Merlin is standing underneath the spray, scrubbing soap across his chest and underneath his armpits and he hasn’t even bothered with the shower curtain. 

“Sorry, I figured I could get my shower in while Uther harrasses you,” he says cheerfully, before scrubbing his soapy fingers over his face and dipping his head into the spray to rinse off, completely unperturbed by the fact that Arthur is standing right there. 

Gobsmacked, Arthur can’t do anything but stare. Water is streaming down Merlin’s body, flushing away the foamy suds, clinging to his muscles and making his skin glow with moisture. He looks like a vision, or maybe like a boy in a cheesy porn clip Arthur once saw. He can’t remember much from their night together, but one image will stay captured in his mind, Merlin above him, all sinewy limbs and lean lines, and he swallows harshly as the sight before him reminding him of how good Merlin looks. He’s fucking _perfect._

Arthur feels frozen and awkward, and when he finally manages to stammer a shaky, nonsensical string of words, Merlin just laughs and turns off the shower, before stepping out, completely nonplussed and oblivious to Arthur’s panic. 

“You want to get in?” Merlin queries and reaches for a towel from the rack, shaking it out before carelessly and brazenly starting to rub himself down. 

“Uhmm… I should… leave,” Arthur stutters, embarrassed beyond belief, knowing that his face must be terribly red. He can feel the heat in his cheeks and spikes of confused arousal tingle down his chest. 

“Oh please,” Merlin mutters, rolling his eyes, “we’ve seen each other naked already, don’t be silly.” He towels off his hair and steps around Arthur, making Arthur acutely aware of the steamy nakedness of Merlin’s body so close behind him. 

He jerks forward and makes the ultimate decision to flee into the shower, pulling the shower curtain shut forcefully, not deigning to answer Merlin. He exhales a sigh of relief when Merlin is out of his sight and strips out of his jogging pants, flinging them outside the shower and listens to them land on the tiles. He tells himself that Merlin is going to leave any minute now, and with the shower curtain between them, it isn’t that bad. He showers with other guys in the locker rooms all the time, it shouldn’t be awkward. Yeah, right, he tells himself, only you never had sex with any of them. 

Arthur starts the shower and tries to think of something that is not Merlin’s naked skin. Just beyond the curtain, Merlin is banging cupboard doors and puttering about, so Arthur figures the best idea to get rid of the awkwardness would be to strike up a conversation. 

He clears his throat and asks the first thing that comes to mind. “So, you were out dancing all night?” 

Merlin huffs out a snort. “No,” he sounds amused. “Went home with that bloke.” A pause. “He was rubbish.” 

Arthur curses quietly, because that certainly didn’t help stop him to think about Merlin naked. It also makes him wonder if that’s what Merlin thinks of him too, that he was rubbish and that’s why they haven’t done anything else. Or maybe it’s like Merlin says, and Merlin is a one-night-stand-guy and he has already put Arthur behind him. Arthur feels bad for even considering another encounter with Merlin - the bloke is his stepbrother after all, he certainly shouldn’t want to kiss him again.

“You didn’t go out,” Merlin says thoughtfully, and it’s more a statement than a question. 

“No,” Arthur mutters, feeling like a loser, so he tacks on, “Rugby usually makes me tired. I prefer going out on Saturday night instead.” 

Merlin is still in the bathroom and apparently not going to leave, so Arthur sticks his head out the shower curtain and has a look. Merlin has sat down on the toilet seat with a towel slung around his hips, clipping his toenails, too concentrated on his task to see Arthur sneak a glimpse. 

“Hmmm,” he says, poking his tongue out to rub against his lip ring, “Where d’you go?” 

“... just… bars,” Arthur mumbles, busying himself with scrubbing shampoo through his hair. Merlin would probably call him lame if Arthur admitted that he liked going to the Bowling Alley or to one of his friend’s houses. 

“You should come with me to the club sometime.” 

“Is it … a gay club?” Arthur asks hesitantly, feeling a slight trepidation at going there with Merlin. It has all the recipe for disaster. 

Merlin laughs at Arthur’s hesitation. “What do you think?” he asks rhetorically, then answers his own question. “I prefer queer clubs though, actually. People aren’t that desperate. Nice blokes, too.” 

Arthur has finished washing himself and his stomach is rumbling and Merlin is still sitting outside, so he decides to jump the bullet and turns off the water. He reaches for a large towel from behind the curtain, takes a deep breath and steps outside, careful to cover his body as best as possible. 

“I don’t… “ he starts, then flushes, because Merlin looks up at him inquiringly. “I… sorry, I don’t…” 

“You don’t do blokes?” Merlin asks, with a curious tilt of his head. “Are you sure, because…” 

Arthur flushes even harder and licks his lips and tries hard not to notice that they are both pretty much undressed. 

A sly grin steals on Merlin’s face as he watches Arthur shift uncomfortably from one leg to the other. “Or was it just me?” he teases. 

“You’re terribly conceited,” Arthur manages, then slings the towel around himself and decides walking out of the bathroom is his best defense to end the conversation. 

Behind him, Merlin giggles, and Arthur legs it into his room and over to his dresser to hunt for clean clothes. He hasn’t managed to get rid of Merlin, though, he can hear Merlin’s naked feet pad against the hardwood floor behind him. 

“I’m sorry,” Merlin says from behind him, sounding less amused and apologetic instead. “I didn't mean to make you that uncomfortable.” 

Arthur rummages through his drawer on the hunt for a shirt, not wanting to deem Merlin’s words with a response. 

“I… I just … I can’t picture not being out, so…” Merlin says, sounding hesitant. 

Sighing, Arthur turns around and looks at him, shirt in hand. He’s struck with the sight of Merlin standing in his bedroom with just a towel around his hips, his hair curling and wet, his eyes bright in his pale face. 

“What was coming out like for you?” Arthur asks, genuinely curious. It seems to be such a difficult decision, something with such a fundamental impact on his life, and he wouldn’t know where to start. 

Merlin shrugs and works his jaw. “I don’t remember the first time. Although…” he wrinkles his nose and frowns a bit, “you have to do it again and again. That thing they tell you, about how you have to come out and then everything is fine,...” he pauses and threads a hand through his wet hair, “that’s nonsense. You have to do it again and again. You’ll be coming out all your life, every day, all the time. The good thing is, it gets easier.” 

Arthur doesn’t know what to say, thrown by Merlin’s brutal honesty. He didn’t expect him to be so truthful or earnest about his answer. 

“If you change your mind about the club,” Merlin offers after a while, “I’m going next week again with my girl Gwen. You should get to know her, she’s brilliant.” 

Arthur makes a vague sound of consent, because he feels the only way to get rid of Merlin will be to agree to whatever scheme Merlin has in mind. 

It works, because Merlin says, “Great!” and then, “Meet you at breakfast in ten?” and Arthur grunts out in the affirmative, glad when he hears the sound of Merlin’s feet retreating and then the bathroom door closing. 

He exhales a sigh of relief once he’s finally alone and sinks down on his bed, feeling all the tension drain from his muscles. Seriously, Merlin is something else. 

September morphs into October almost imperceptibly and then the deadline for college applications has suddenly passed and Arthur hasn’t sent in the application for Law School. The application form is still hidden in his desk underneath a pile of other papers. There’s a bit in his stomach that constantly feels queasy, like he’s going to throw up soon, because he knows that he has to confront Uther about it one of these days. On the other hand it feels like a weight has dropped off his shoulders, because he ruined every chance to get into the Law Undergraduate Study next year. It’s a wonder Uther hasn’t wanted to see the finished application, but Uther’s been distracted with marital bliss. 

Suddenly, things in their house are much less restrictive. Technically, there still is a curfew, but Uther doesn’t even notice when one of them comes home late (or on the next day, in Merlin’s case). Morgana was pretty tipsy a couple of days ago at their Thursday family dinner, from drinking a bottle of wine with her best girlfriend in the afternoon and Uther never even noticed. She’s been hanging out with a couple of new friends and it isn’t even Merlin’s bad influence that makes her do things that are fundamentally uncharacteristic for Morgana. Arthur suspects her of smoking pot, but the one time he tried talking to her about it, she just glared at him and called him ridiculous. Maybe, just maybe, the changes in their life aren’t that easy for her to stomach either.

To his surprise, he and Merlin have struck up an easy camaraderie. Not two weeks ago, Arthur wouldn’t have thought that Merlin was so easy to talk to, but now their conversations just seem to take off. 

Things between them have changed. Arthur remembers when they first met and he thought Merlin was just weird and sarcastic as a default. Looking at Merlin now, he can barely believe they were reluctant strangers just a couple of weeks ago. Something shifted, in their relationship, in his perception. Merlin is still weird, with a sharp and dark sense of humour, but it’s like they have suddenly tuned into the same wavelength. It’s like Arthur gets him now and in turn, Merlin gets him. Like the garbled, fractured nonsense that was their conversation before has turned into their own private language, full of in jokes. He doesn’t understand how it happened and so quickly at that. It’s like someone flipped a switch. 

Merlin still enjoys roasting Arthur, but he does so teasingly and Arthur likes to give back as good as he gets. They have even started to hang out in the evening, watching tv shows together or talking, mostly about books they’ve read and enjoyed. Arthur finds it incredibly easy to talk to Merlin. One topic just moves seamlessly into the next and there’s so much excitement about Merlin when he talks about something he’s passionate about that Arthur just rolls along with it. His whole face lights up and he comes to life, gesturing about wildly with his hands. Arthur finds himself beaming at Merlin’s joy, triumphant whenever he makes Merlin laugh, a sound that he feels down to his toes. 

It makes it harder to ignore the tug of want he feels, because the purely physical attraction has turned into something else, something Arthur really doesn’t want to put down into words. More often than not during the day, he finds himself impatient for Merlin to come home from work or band practice, just so he can knock on his door and spend the evening sitting cross legged on Merlin’s floor and play Cards against Humanity, making each other howl with laughter until they are exhausted and Arthur crawls back into his bed. 

He keeps filling page after page in his sketchbook with images of Merlin, trying to remember the way he looked that morning naked in the bed where Arthur left him. More and more he finds himself sketching other people, too. While he had been fascinated by man-made forms for a while now, it’s the human form he suddenly has taken interest in. He’s been going through phases during which he strives to perfect a certain element, hands, eyes, mouths. He spends a whole weekend trying to pin down movement. The guilt is always there. He’s been wracking his brain what to tell Uther when he finds out, but he has no idea how to explain himself. 

The secrecy is making him stir crazy and he has more than once thought of confiding in Leon, or maybe even Merlin. The thought surprises him for all of two seconds, but then again, they have become quite close over the last couple of weeks and Merlin already knows more about him than most of his friends. (That he likes dick, for example.) 

His secret gets out in another way, though. On one Wednesday evening, when he has every reason to believe he’s the only person at home, it’s Hunith who catches him working on a new project. 

He’s been sitting at his desk for the past three hours with his headphones on, working on his drawings, when someone touches his shoulder and he nearly has a heart attack. He barely manages not to fall out of his chair and when he spins around, expecting his father, it’s Hunith, smiling down at him. He exhales a shaky breath and brushes his headphones off, trying to quell his panic attack.

“Oh, sorry Arthur,” she says, looking apologetic. “I was looking for Merlin and when you didn’t answer when I knocked, I came in. I shouldn’t have done that.” 

“He’s not here. I haven’t seen him all day,” he says, and his voice sounds almost normal to his own ears. 

“Thanks,” she beams. “I figured… “ she starts hesitantly. “I’ve noticed that recently you two have become friends?” 

Arthur bites his lip, for a moment unsure of how to answer. He’s keenly aware of his sketches spread out on the table behind him and knows it’s only a matter of moments before Hunith notices. 

“Uhmm. Yes. Yes, I guess we’ve become friends.” 

“I’m happy,” Hunith says quietly, clasping her hands in front of her stomach. “You’re such a good influence on him. He’s… sometimes it’s been hard for him growing up with just me around.”

Arthur hmms in agreement, trying to secretly reach behind himself to shuffle the papers and art supplies. It only makes Hunith aware of what he’s trying to hide, and she glances over his shoulder, her eyes going wide. 

“Arthur,” she breathes, “is that yours?” She doesn’t wait for his confirmation, but steps forwards and peers over his shoulder. “That’s really good!” 

Blushing, Arthur tries to cover up some of the papers, feeling embarrassed and caught. Hunith’s face is full of wonder, though, and when she asks “May I?” he nods reluctantly, watching as she carefully shifts the papers again, studying each page carefully. 

He tries to look at his work from her perspective, but it’s difficult to imagine what she sees. Talking with Merlin about books has given him the idea for this particular series and he has been illustrating scenes from Frank Herbert’s Dune. Sietch Tabr, Caladan Castle, the Mother School on Wallach IX as well as Paul’s Keep are all places he has put down on paper, drawing heavily from the descriptions in the books rather than the known visualizations of Jodorowskys’ attempt at a movie.

“This is beautiful,” she whispers as she stares at his drawing of the Imperial Throne Room. She shifts the papers again and Arthur freezes when Hunith’s eyes fall on the depiction of the scene where Paul flies an Ornithopter into a sandstorm. The boy behind the controls has black, curly hair, a straight nose and high cheekbones, his look is fierce and unafraid as he navigates the machine towards the ground. His blue eyes are the only colour in the picture, the rest is shaded in in pencil. Arthur swallows and hopes Hunith won’t notice the likeness of her son in Paul Atreides’ face. 

She doesn’t say anything, but pulls out another paper and studies it, making appreciative noises over his drawing of a Navigator’s spaceship. 

“This is really good, Arthur!” 

He blushes under her impressed gaze and shifts on his chair, ducking his head.

“It really is. Does Uther know you can draw like this?” 

He’s surprised that she hits the nail right on the head and even more so when she answers for him. “He doesn’t know, does he?” 

Arthur shakes his head mutely and Hunith sighs and sits down on the edge of Arthur’s desk, careful to not dislodge his drawings. “Your father,” she says slowly, “was very hurt when your mother died. I think you all were,” she adds kindly. “But you are your own person, Arthur, no matter how much Uther wishes you acted like his clone. And I guess you often remind him of her. You will make your own decisions, and they will be good.” 

“I….. is it that obvious?” Arthur blurts out. “That I don’t want to follow in his footsteps?” 

Hunith looks at him and smiles. She reaches out a hand and he allows it as she cards her fingers through his hair. He feels himself leaning into the touch, surprised by his own reaction. This is not his mother, but her touch is motherly and kind. 

“You should talk to him,” she says softly, then drops her hands away, staying seated with her hands in her lap for another moment, before she slowly gets up, sending another kind smile his way. 

Exhaling a shaky breath, Arthur watches her leave. She’s almost at the door when she suddenly stops and turns around, a contemplative expression on her face. 

“About Merlin,” she says, and she sounds slightly hesitant, “you should know that he likes to put up a tough front, pretending that nothing gets to him and he hasn’t a care in the world.” She pauses briefly, looking at him earnestly. “But he’s very sensitive. He gets hurt easily.” 

She turns and leaves before Arthur can respond. His heart is jack-hammering in his chest all of a sudden and he has to take a couple of gulping breaths to regain his equilibrium. The conversation with Hunith has unsettled him quite a bit, because he feels like all his secrets have been easily revealed by this woman who is now his step-mother. 

It takes him minutes to calm down enough so he can pick up his pencils again and return to his drawings. 

"I’m so excited,” Morgana squeals happily, hopping up and down a bit and tugging harshly on Arthur’s shirt sleeve, her eyes surveying the room and its occupants with interest. They are at a small dingy concert venue in Shoreditch and the place is packed already, about one hundred and fifty people crammed into a room that may be fit for 100. A small stage is set up up front, laden with instruments, barely any space left, and people are pressed up right against it. There’s a banner strung up at the back of the stage that looks like old bedsheets. Someone has painted the band’s name on it, the font familiar: i am magic.

Arthur wonders if he only feels like sticking out like a sore thumb or if it’s just really obvious that he doesn’t belong here. The people around them look effortlessly cool in that careless way that makes him always feel inadequate. They wear outfits he wouldn’t be caught dead in but somehow they make it work - ugly tank tops and faded dad-jeans, frumpy cardigans and eye-boggling 80s sportswear. Some girls have undercuts, some guys wear make-up, a lot of them don pretty ugly eyewear - horn-rimmed or wire-framed glasses that look like they should belong to their grandparents. He spots one or two people pretentiously sporting sunglasses despite being inside. In comparison he feels boring and plain in his jeans and t-shirt. 

Arthur wishes desperately for a drink, but the venue controlled their Citizencards upon entry and all he got was a bottle of water which is almost half finished. 

He doesn’t quite know why he has agreed to come. It was probably a combination of Merlin’s careless invitation and Morgana’s relentless puppy eyes, paired with the threat of double sibling animosity for the rest of his life if he refused. 

The lights in the club dim and there’s an excited crowing coming from the crowd and suddenly people are pressing up against them from behind and pushing them forward. Amazingly enough, despite Arthur’s earlier perception, there’s still some space left, because they stumble forward a few meters and find themselves relatively closer to the stage. Arthur grips Morgana’s arm and tries to shield her from the press of bodies, but she just cheers and looks at him with wild, wide eyes, clearly delighted. He sometimes forgets that she isn’t a little girl anymore, that she is growing into a woman: a tall, independent and very beautiful one, with a mouth on her that might put a sailor to shame.

The crowd erupts into cheers and whistles when a short girl walks on stage, dark curls like a cloud around her face, gives a short wave and sits down behind the drum set at the back of the stage. She starts twirling two sticks around and shifts on her seat, getting comfortable. The people in the crowd are constantly whistling and calling now, and another cheer rises as a lanky and mousy haired guy jogs onto the stage, plugging a bass into one of the amplifiers on stage right. 

Four microphone stands are set up on the front of the stage, evenly spaced out from left to right. 

“This is going to be Merlin’s space,” Morgana points out excitedly and wags her fingers towards stage left, where a keyboard is set up. “Come on!” She starts elbowing her way through the thong of people to get closer to stage left, dragging Arthur behind her. He’s quietly amazed that they manage to end up where Morgana wants them to be without getting into a fight, but then the concert crowd seems to be pretty mellow and laid back and there are only a couple of unimpressed glances as they push their way through. 

Another person steps from the wings, a handsome bloke with short, wavy hair and a dreamy expression and behind him, Merlin, who ducks out almost like an afterthought. Morgana squeals and once more tugs on Arthur’s clothes, beaming like a proud mother hen. They watch as the boy with the curls picks up the guitar in the middle of the stage and Merlin settles himself at the keyboard, reaching out to adjust the microphone in its stand, before checking a couple of boxes on his keyboard. Another girl comes out, dressed in a frilly, romantic sun dress with pink polka dots, a neon guitar slung around her neck, taking the place between Merlin and the other guitarist, her feet bare, her face beaming as she looks over the crowd and laughs delightedly. 

Arthur can’t help but grin when he recognises the instrument Merlin is fiddling with. It’s Boyfriend, the bright orange monstrosity they nearly dropped on the day Merlin moved in, and he’s decked out with a couple of extra boxes. Besides it, on a small table, sits an enormous pult with numerous dials. 

The lights on stage change to the sound of the crowd calling and clapping, and then Merlin hits the keys and starts a simple melody before adding sample after sample to build a layered sound carpet which builds the base for the rest of the band to join in with their instruments. 

In a matter of seconds the music becomes strong and driven by guitar and electric beats and all around Arthur, people start to jump and move. He’s irritated for all of two seconds, but then forgets all about it, because Merlin starts to sing, and Arthur honestly hadn’t expected that. Merlin’s singing voice is boyishly snotty and unpolished, nothing like when he talks, but he somehow makes it work with attitude. The guitarist joins him in a chorus, then takes over on the next verse. 

“Oh my God,” Morgana cheers and she makes little noises of excitement, “this is so cool.” 

“Don’t injure yourself,” Arthur mutters, but he has to admit, it kind of is. 

He feels the music in his whole body, beats and bass, thumping through his veins, quickening his heartbeat. He recognises the music as the same weird shit Merlin sometimes plays in his room with his stereo on too loud. Before he knows it, he’s moving to the beat, jostled by the crowd around him, spurred into action. 

The song ends and morphs into another one, just as pumped up and energetic. Arthur feels like he can’t look away from where Merlin is alternately playing his instrument, tweaking the dials and flipping switches, and gripping the microphone to deliver his parts in his unpolished stage voice. He’s pretty sure the rest of the band gives an equally dynamic performance, but the one person he can’t look away from is Merlin, shouting his heart out and giving his all. Everyone in the band seems to have a voice part at some point, even the drummer, who has a lovely, crystal clear voice that’s almost a shock, considering how she hits the drums with fervour.

It seems to go on and on, a great celebration of aggressive beats, mostly a cacophony of noise with barely a slower song in between as respite. There’s an underlying dark and seductive, sometimes animalistically tribal current to the songs and the lyrics speak of inevitable fate, fatalistic endings and forbidden desires. The female guitarist moderates between songs, building up a rapport with the audience that makes everyone laugh. They are unpolished and sometimes off-beat, at times out of tune, the guitarist forgets his lines and sings garbled nonsense, but it doesn’t matter - the energy they bring to their performance is authentic and infectious and the audience and band alike has a great time all around. 

Before Arthur knows it, they play an encore, then another one and finally, they walk off stage with a promise to be back next month in their usual time slot.

The crowd disperses pretty quickly and Arthur vibrates with nervous adrenaline. Morgana’s face is flushed and she’s bouncing on her feet, still moving to the aftershocks of the music. Arthur’s phone buzzes against his thigh with an incoming message and he pulls it out of his pocket, finding a message from Merlin. Stick around, it says. 

They wander over towards the bar and get in line for drinks. Gladly, a lot of the audience have gone outside for a smoke and they don’t need to wait long. They settle by the side of the bar with a coke each and Arthur listens to Morgana chatter on about how much she enjoyed it and wasn’t the girl drummer the coolest person ever. 

It doesn’t take long before the band members emerge from the side door, first the pretty guitarist in her frilly dress, followed by the bassist, then the rest of the band. The last one to step out is Merlin, sipping on a bottle of water. They are all immediately accosted by friends and family, and Arthur wonders why he is meant to stick around, when clearly so many people are here to see Merlin. 

Morgana obviously doesn’t have such qualms, because she lets out a small whoop and makes for Merlin, pushing people aside to throw herself at him, nearly taking him down as he stumbles with surprise and lifts his arms to catch her. Arthur rolls his eyes good-naturedly and follows much more sedately. Merlin laughs and holds Morgana off, saying something to her, then pulling her close for a hug and a kiss, both of them beaming. If Arthur didn’t know better now, he would absolutely hate it, but all he can muster is a bit of uneasiness because he bedruges Morgana their easy camaraderie. 

“Hey,” he says, trying to sound aloof and reserved, but Merlin gives him that same glowing smile with which he greeted Morgana, and Arthur feels his resolve to stay cool slip away. 

“That was bloody brilliant,” he hears himself exhale and Merlin’s smile widens. 

“I’m glad,” he says and Arthur doesn’t know what else to say, because he’s hit with how cute Merlin is with his floppy wild curls and high cheekbones and the way his arms look lean and strong in his sleeveless hoodie makes his stomach curl with want. 

He snaps out of the moment when someone jostles him from behind and he flushes, masking his blush with taking a sip from his coke, hoping that no one saw that he was practically salivating over his step-brother in public. The person who bumped into him is the girl drummer and she smiles at him when he turns around.

“Hey,” she says, “you’re Elyan’s friend from rugby!” 

It’s only then that he recognises her, because he has seen her all of three times over the years and she looks different now with her short dark curls and the edgy make-up. 

“You’re his sister, Jen?”

“It’s Gwen, actually,” she replies, but she doesn’t begrudge him his faulty memory, because she is still smiling, gentle and sweet. “It’s a small world.”

“I’m sorry,” he mutters, abashed, feeling heat rise to his face. “I’m Arthur, by the way.”

“Please,” she says kindly, “it’s all right, Arthur.”

“So you are ‘Arthur, the Prat’?” someone says from next to him, and Arthur looks up to see the handsome guitarist with the brown curls and blue eyes standing next to them, giving him a once over. “He doesn’t look much like a prat to me, Merlin,” he adds with raised eyebrows and a mocking smile, and out of the corner of his eye, Arthur sees Merlin squirm on the spot, grimacing.

“Shut up, Mordred,” Merlin hisses, looking a bit mortified but also sullen, and if that isn’t an interesting look on him. Next to Merlin, Morgana giggles and sticks out her hand to introduce herself to Mordred and Gwen, proudly declaring herself Merlin’s new sister. 

Mordred, clearly delighted with having been able to fluster Merlin, smirks. “You didn’t tell me your new siblings were good looking,” he teases, looking between Arthur and Morgana, and Morgana grins. 

“Oh, yes, it’s a shame for him that he isn’t related by blood. He’s clearly missing out on the good Pendragon genes,” she quips and Arthur guffaws out a laugh, because Merlin looks indignant and offended, as he crosses his arms over his chest and glares. 

“I like you!” Gwen exclaims wholeheartedly and reaches for Morgana’s arm. “Come with me, I’ll introduce you to Freya and we’ll let the boys load the van.” She drags Morgana away, looking over her shoulder only once as if to check whether she can get away with sneaking off.

“We have Gwaine to load the van,” Mordred says. “He’s just lazy.” 

“What’s that talk about me being lazy?” a new voice pipes in and Arthur watches as another boy joins their group, his long, curly hair looking like he just came from the hairdressers as it swishes around his face becomingly. He smacks Mordred’s head with the flat of his hand, then slings an arm around Merlin’s shoulders and presses a kiss to his temple. 

Arthur’s mind is reeling, because this is Gwaine, the guy Merlin took up to his room to shag and the knowledge makes him feel sick and angry. He is keenly aware of the fact that his fingernails are digging into his palms and he wills himself to relax his hands, trying not to glare at the way Gwaine has his arm thrown so casually across Merlin’s shoulder. It doesn’t help that Gwaine is all kinds of good looking - tall, clearly athletically built, chiselled face and soft brown eyes.

“You are a lazy sod, Gwaine,” Merlin agrees, but he sounds fond, a fondness that is missing from his voice when he adds with a somewhat derisive side-glance at Mordred. “As are you, Mordred. We should definitely put the instruments away, so we can have a drink.” He moves forward, Gwaine’s arm slipping from his shoulder. 

There is obviously some animosity between Merlin and Mordred, but Arthur can’t tell if they are having a fight right now about something or if they geniously dislike each other. 

“I’ll help,” Arthur hears himself offer, unwilling to stay behind and suffer not knowing what Gwaine gets up to with Merlin in the meantime. He’s (maybe irrationally) afraid that Merlin might not even come back, because he’s too busy shagging Gwaine in the van or something. 

“You really don’t have to,” Merlin says, but there’s something in his voice that makes Arthur think Merlin wants him to go with them, too.

“I want to,” Arthur replies, and enjoys the small, pleased smile spreading on Merlin’s face. 

Someone clears their throat and Arthur finds Gwaine looking between him and Merlin with a puzzled frown that vanishes as soon as Gwaine notices Arthur glancing his way. “Let’s get it over with, then,” he says, clasping his hands together. 

Mordred sighs and mutters something about how work will never end and hasn’t he slaved enough tonight already, but ultimately follows Gwaine and behind his back, Merlin rolls his eyes at Arthur and nudges him with his elbow, until he moves, trailing after the other two boys backstage. 

Gwaine goes looking for Will, who is the bassist and supposed to help them, but they can’t find him, so Gwaine, Mordred, Merlin and Arthur start tidying up on stage. Arthur doesn’t know what to do, but Merlin just keeps pressing boxes of equipment into his hands which he then carries out the backdoor into the alley, where a beat-up van that reads “Green Flower Deliveries - even on Sundays” is parked. 

It takes them about half an hour to load everything inside, after which they are all even more sweaty than before. 

“We owe you a drink,” Merlin says, and this time, it’s his arm coming around Arthur’s shoulder as they walk. His weight against Arthur’s side is warm and welcome and Arthur tries not to react too obviously to the fact that he enjoys the attention. 

“How come I never get a drink for loading the van?” Gwaine mutters from behind them. 

“You get free drinks all the time, Green,” Mordred’s annoyed voice pipes up and both Merlin and Arthur chortle. Against Arthur’s side, the trembling of laughter in Merlin’s body feels intimate and arousing. “Free… everything.” 

“Sexual favours don’t count,” Gwaine says petulantly, and for some reason, Arthur finds this even more hilarious. 

“You’re such a groupie.” Mordred sounds dead serious and long suffering and Gwaine bickers back, but Arthur isn’t listening anymore, because Merlin is still pressed to his side and he smells nice, if somewhat sweaty. 

Inside, they cram into a booth with Gwen, Morgana, Freya - the girl in the frilly dress - Will, the missing bassist, as well as two other blokes, friends of Gwen. Gwaine orders them a round of drinks and being with the band seems to make the bartender blind to the fact that except for Gwen, her friends, Gwaine and Will, neither of them wears an over-18 wristband. 

Merlin is still pressed to Arthur’s side, sitting so close that Arthur can feel him breathe and laugh and he is so distracted, that he only gets half of what is said at the table. Merlin’s friends are hilarious, though and he finds himself laughing at all of their jokes, even at Gwaine’s. It makes it easier that Gwaine is sitting across the table from them, bestowing his attention and charm on one of Gwen’s friends. Mordred turns out to be surprisingly witty when he’s not trading little barbs with Merlin and he keeps glancing at Arthur across the table with clear interest whenever Arthur laughs at one of his jokes. Arthur doesn’t know how to react, not with how Merlin is all but plastered to his side, but he’s secretly pleased with the attention. 

The evening wears on and Arthur loses track of time and the drinks he has consumed. Will and Freya - who apparently are not together, despite Will never once straying from Freya’s side and looking at her with big brown eyes like a lovesick fool - leave first, followed by Gwen and her friends. Morgana decides to leave with Gwen, who promises Arthur she’s going to take her with her by taxi and drop her off directly in front of their house. Mordred and Gwaine are the last holdouts with Merlin and Arthur, and they drink another round. Arthur is mostly content to listen to Merlin, Mordred and Gwaine bicker and tell tall tales about each other. Even though they have much more space in the booth now, Merlin is still plastered to his side, his naked arm brushing against Arthur’s as he talks animatedly, making spikes of heat travel up Arthur’s spine. He shouldn’t enjoy it so much, but sitting like this with Merlin is a form of exquisite torture and he loves the thrill of getting aroused by Merlin’s closeness. 

They finally wrap it up and Mordred walks with Gwaine to the van outside, while Merlin and Arthur stumble onto the street out front. It’s late - or rather, early - and the fresh air hits Arthur like a welcome slap in the face. Merlin is all but clinging to his side and they lurch along not so much because of how much they had to drink, but because it’s difficult to walk while still leaning so heavily on each other. 

“I’m glad you came,” Merlin mutters into Arthur’s neck and Arthur’s breath catches. 

“I’m… glad too,” he whispers, aware that his voice is hoarse. He’s so keyed up, all he wants is to get home and get some privacy to jerk off. It’s his own fault for being unable to put some distance between them, but then again, he couldn’t have if he tried. 

Their feet tangle for a moment and they laugh as they careen sideways, hitting the side of a building. 

“Ow,” Arthur mutters at the way his arm connects painfully with a wall. 

“‘M sorry,” Merlin breathes, sounding not very apologetic and he keeps leaning heavily on Arthur. 

Merlin doesn’t seem inclined to move and Arthur twists sideways, only to have Merlin sink against him bonelessly, smothering him with his body. He’s heavy, despite his lanky frame. 

“You smell so bloody good,” Merlin says huskily, nosing at this neck, and Arthur becomes aware of their panting breath, loud between the both of them. 

He sucks in a harsh breath as Merlin’s mouth presses underneath his jaw, trembling at the soft touch of Merlin’s lips. 

“We’ve done that already,” Arthur mutters foolishly, thinking back to his hazy memories of their parents’ wedding night, to the brick wall behind the oleander and Merlin’s hands on him, and Merlin snorts laughter against his skin, before exhaling a soft moan that shivers through Arthur’s body and makes him instantly hard.

“Merlin,” he whispers, and he might have tried to voice a protest, but Merlin chooses that moment to suck on his jugular and it comes out on a moan, filthy and loud in the quiet of the night. 

“Yes,” Merlin sighs and then his mouth is on Arthur, tongue prying his lips apart. 

Merlin’s mouth is just as he remembers, warm and wet and soft and he kisses Arthur shallowly and open-mouthed, his breath warm and moist against Arthur’s face. It’s desperate and a bit filthy and noisy and incredibly sexy and Arthur curls his fingers into Merlin’s locks and allows Merlin to take his mouth any way he wants. 

He nearly doubles over chasing after Merlin’s lips blindly when Merlin suddenly draws back and when he opens his eyes, Merlin is standing about half an arm’s length away, his face flushed, eyes gleaming in the light of the nearby streetlamp. 

“Not here,” Merlin says roughly and trails his fingers down Arthur’s arm, reaching for his hand and tugging him along and up the street towards the taxi stand. They are both panting as if they ran a marathon, and Arthur doesn’t dare look at Merlin out of fear of tackling him into the next alley. They somehow manage to get to the taxi stand without further altercation and Merlin all but shoves him into the back of the first taxi in line and tells the driver their address. 

Arthur stares out the window at the buildings passing by, trying to concentrate on his breathing and not on the heat radiating off Merlin’s body. He startles when he feels a touch to his hand and when he looks down to where his hand is resting on the seat between them, Merlin’s fingers are stroking the back of his hand, the simple touch making Arthur short of breath again. 

He looks up to find Merlin glancing at him, and when he catches his eye, Merlin leans in, once more nuzzling the side of his face. 

“You drive me nuts,” Merlin says softly, his breath shivering over Arthur’s ear, before he darts out his tongue, dipping it into the shell of Arthur’s ear. Arthur lets out a frantic groan, flushing red with embarrassment because of the sound, hoping that the driver won’t look into the rearview mirror. He bites his lip, trying to keep in another noisy moan, but Merlin nibbles his way back over his chin towards his mouth and sinks his teeth into his bottom lip, clearly intent on not stopping anytime soon.

It’s too good, the touch of Merlin’s hand on his thigh, fingers digging into the fabric of his jeans, the wonderful temptation of his mouth, and Arthur is just that drunk enough that he finds he doesn’t give a shit if the taxi driver notices - he figures, they are not the first people to make out in the back of his taxi. 

Once more, he loses track of time. Everything is reduced to Merlin’s mouth and tongue and hands and then Merlin turns sideways and slides into his lap and grabs Arthur’s shirt and he forgets everything, everything but Merlin’s heat and how he is touching him. 

He nearly makes a sound of neglect when Merlin moves back all of a sudden and stretches to push open the door on Arthur’s side, sliding over him and all but tumbling outside onto the curb. 

Hazily, Arthur shakes his head to clear it, before he reaches into his pockets to extract his wallet, counting out the taxi fare and a generous tip and presses it into the taxi driver’s hand without looking the man in the eye. He stumbles outside after Merlin, relieved to see that they have arrived home. 

Inside the house, everything is quiet and dark. Arthur can hear Merlin breathe from where he’s pressed up against Arthur’s back, erratically and loud, his fingers busy where they slide underneath Arthur’s clothes, jacket and shirt, sliding over bare skin. Merlin’s fingers are cold on Arthur’s heated skin. They stagger forward before Arthur manages to steady them with one hand on the bannister and Merlin spins him around, attacking his mouth, pressing him up against the wooden baluster. Their teeth clash together, the sting soothed by tongue and the wet velvet softness of Merlin’s mouth. 

“C’mon,” Merlin whispers against his lips, tugging at his clothes, and they both somehow toe their trainers off, leaving them where they land. Up the stairs, sneaking around the creaky bits, stopping for kisses every few steps. On the first floor landing, Merlin presses him up against the wall, right next to the family portrait, his hands impatient as they roam Arthur’s body, sliding underneath his clothes and exploring heated skin.

A moan escapes from Arthur when Merlin’s fingers brush his sensitive nipples and Merlin shushes him. He shushes Merlin right back and they both giggle, before Arthur pushes Merlin gently away and ushers him up the stairs. Merlin breaks into a sprint and Arthur catches up with him just near Arthur’s door. They tumble inside and Merlin rips Arthur’s shirt off the moment the door closes behind them, then hungrily reaches for him, his eyes wild, hair askew from where Arthur gripped it. 

“Off, off,” he says, and his hands are busy undoing Arthur’s trousers as he crowds him backward, towards the bed. Arthur is in no state to refuse Merlin anything and he allows Merlin to divest him of his trousers, before pushing him down onto the bed, following suit. 

Arthur can’t remember much from last time, everything is hazy with the fog of alcohol, but he’s pretty sure he’s going to remember this time. Now that Arthur is shirtless, Merlin has turned his attention from Arthur’s neck and mouth to Arthur’s chest, sucking on his clavicle and trailing his tongue down his sternum. Blindly, Arthur fists his hands into Merlin’s hoodie, pulling it forcefully over Merlin’s head, just as eager to get Merlin naked. He thinks of Merlin stepping out of the shower, all glistening and wet a couple of days ago and his eyes greedily take in Merlin’s naked skin where it’s revealed. He can’t remember wanting anyone as much before and it scares him a little, while also making him short of breath.

Merlin licks his way back up his chest and then they’re kissing again, their hands frantic on each other’s bodies. Merlin is hard against Arthur’s thigh and he keeps pressing down in search of friction, making the most obscene and beautiful sounds as he rolls his hips. Arthur needs him naked, needs to feel more of his skin, so he pushes at Merlin until he relents and together they work on getting Merlin’s trousers and pants off. They both fumble and bump their fingers and when their eyes meet, Merlin can’t seem to stop the burble of laughter that escapes.

When Merlin sinks down against him next, he’s blissfully naked, his skin hot and smooth and Arthur groans into Merlin’s mouth, amazed by how good Merlin’s body feels sliding against him. He gasps when Merlin draws back only to trail little nips of teeth down his chest again, then presses wet kisses to his stomach, burying his face into his abs. 

“Shit, you’re absolutely gorgeous,” Merlin breathes out, his voice reverent, before licking at Arthur’s belly button and dipping his tongue inside. When he drags his mouth lower, Arthur’s toes curl, both at the praise and the direction Merlin’s mouth is taking. He can barely breathe when Merlin pushes his boxer shorts down, and he hisses softly when Merlin mouths the skin below his navel all too briefly before bypassing the place Arthur wants Merlin’s mouth on most to trail his tongue over his inner thigh. 

Arthur makes a neglected sound, because he can barely remember Merlin’s mouth on him and he wants to commit the sensation to memory, so he won’t ever forget it again. 

“Later,” Merlin promises hoarsely, his eyes dark as he strokes Arthur’s thigh almost soothingly. “I’m not that drunk this time. I want to look at you.” 

“You look at me all the time,” Arthur complains, thinking of every instance when he felt Merlin’s eyes on him over the past weeks. 

“Not like this, I don’t,” Merlin murmurs, his hands smoothing up and down Arthur’s thighs as he takes him in. He’s chewing his lip, looking at Arthur like he really enjoys what he sees and the contemplation makes Arthur flush and squirm. Merlin keeps trailing his eyes over Arthur with undivided attention, his mouth parted slightly, his gaze intense and immediate and there’s something in his eyes that makes Arthur shiver in anticipation.

“Turn over,” Merlin says softly, “I want to eat you out.”

“What?” Arthur wheezes, embarrassed by how alarmed he sounds, but Merlin’s seductive words are not what he expected and the suggestion feels like a punch to his stomach. 

“Eat you out. Rim you. Put my tongue up your arse,” Merlin suggests bluntly, as if he isn’t sure Arthur got him the first time. A small frown steals on his face and he adds, “Or is this something you don’t care about?” He actually looks worried, like he offended Arthur or something, which is laughable, because he’s offering rather kinky sexual favours (at least as far as Arthur is concerned) and really, Arthur isn’t inclined to decline at all. 

Arthur sucks in a breath and shakes his head, before figuring his answer might be misunderstood and he turns around onto his stomach to make it unquestionably clear that he wants what Merlin is offering. Goosebumps are travelling up and down his body and he buries his head in his arms to hide the heat rising in his face. “No one ever..” he says softly. 

“Let me be the first one, then,” Merlin says hoarsely, smoothing his hands over Arthur’s back and the globes of his ass. His breathing is pleasingly quick when he says, “Fuck, you have a great arse. I’ve been wanting to do this ever since I saw it after the wedding.” 

Despite the shiver Merlin’s hands and words cause to run through his body, Arthur snorts. “You said, and I quote ‘ Now we got the attraction out of the way, we can just go on with our lives.’” 

Merlin makes a sneering sound, his fingers pressing and pushing at the knobs of Arthur’s spine. “I said that?” he says, sounding insincere and distracted. 

“Uh-huh,” Arthur mumbles into the pillow, and it’s ridiculous, because he’s so turned on it’s painful and also bloody nervous and here they are, arguing about something that doesn’t matter in the least. 

Behind him, Merlin releases a shivery breath. “Anyway” he says, his voice low and warm, his hands smoothing down Arthur’s back and over the globes of his ass, “I very much feel attracted to your arse right now,” and it makes Arthur laugh again, because Merlin is really just very silly. 

Arthur hisses when Merlin leans down and slides his body against his, leaning over him, his erection pressing against the small of Arthur’s back. Arthur is so keyed up that he can barely keep still, trembling whenever Merlin touches him. 

“You have no idea how hot you are,” Merlin moans against Arthur’s skin, brushing his mouth against Arthur’s neck like he can’t help himself, “like seriously, the hottest bloke, ever.” 

“Shut up,” Arthur groans, and it sounds harsh to his own ears, but he can’t handle it when Merlin says things like that, because at the back of his mind, the part of him that still clings to sanity is screaming that Merlin is his step-brother and they shouldn’t be doing what they are doing at all. He’s thrumming with nervous energy and the mere idea of what Merlin wants to do to him makes his cock leak precome against the sheets. 

Merlin huffs against his shoulder, then gives him a hard bite at the nape of his neck, making him cry out, before moving his lips and body lower, slowly sliding down, hands and mouth trailing fire down his spine. Arthur is shivering when Merlin reaches the swell of his arse and mouths there for a torturously long time until Arthur is dizzy with want. When Merlin finally slips his mouth lower and trails his tongue down into the crack of Arthur’s ass, Arthur can’t help but yelp. 

“Oh God...” Arthur moans at the wet, dirty touch of tongue on sensitive skin and Merlin chuckles against his skin, obviously pleased with his wanton reaction. Whimpering, Arthur clutches the pillow and raises his hip, needing to give his erection space, involuntarily pushing back against Merlin’s mouth. 

Merlin groans and hums an affirmation, hands reaching out to help Arthur push to his knees, and Arthur would be terribly embarrassed, but he has no brain cells left to care when Merlin pushes the tip of his tongue against his pucker again, circling the rim with teasing licks. 

Arthur bites down on his fist desperately to muffle the noises that want to spill from his lips, but they slip out nonetheless as little whimpers and broken moans and they seem to encourage Merlin to become bolder with his mouth and tongue as he explores Arthur’s reactions.

Merlin’s hand reaches for his, fingers uncurling his own from the sheets and draws his hand towards his cock. He grips their combined fingers and slides them up and down the length of Arthur’s cock, not breaking away from licking into him in the same rhythm. The flutter of Merlin’s tongue feels like nothing Arthur has ever experienced and he shoves backwards, body begging for more, not caring what Merlin might think or how desperate he might appear. 

Merlin’s mouth wrenches dirty and desperate whimpers from him and he claws at the bedsheets with his left hand, his thighs trembling, feeling vulnerable and open and so terribly turned on. 

“Fuck, Arthur,” Merlin moans against his skin, sounding wrecked and desperate himself as he trails his tongue over Arthur’s rim and presses the tip of it insinstingly past the loosening muscle, coating the crack of Arthur’s arse with more saliva. 

Arthur comes apart with a desperate shout to Merlin’s tongue pushing into him and their fingers fisting his cock, his orgasm racing through him like a lightning bolt, the pleasure sharp and immediate, body seizing up before he relaxes. He slumps down on the bed in his own mess, uncaring, his heart missing several beats before it returns with full force. The mattress shifts and Merlin drops down next to him and when Arthur looks over, the expression on Merlin’s flushed face is smug and pleased and a little feverish.

Arthur doesn’t know what to say, so he pushes himself up on his knees and reaches for Merlin, wrapping his fingers around Merlin’s cock, biting his lip at how it feels to have it in his hands, hard and sheathed in soft, warm skin. When he gives him an experimental stroke, Merlin’s breath hitches. 

Merlin pushes himself up on his elbows, looking distractingly beautiful with his dark hair, blue eyes and pale skin and he watches with rapt attention as Arthur bends closer to lick over the crown of his cock, his teeth gnawing his bottom lip and worrying the skin around his lip ring. He makes another soft, breathless sound, and encouraged, Arthur slides his mouth over the head of Merlin’s cock, moaning when Merlin’s hands find his hair and his fingers frantically card through the strands. 

He’s no expert, but at least he has done this before, and he slides his mouth down Merlin’s cock, allowing Merlin to dictate the rhythm by guiding him with his hands in his hair. When he draws back to lick up a drop of pre-come, Merlin makes a pleasingly dirty sound of encouragement and pushes his hips upward, eager to get back inside Arthur’s mouth. 

Arthur complies and tongues the underside of Merlin’s dick, pleased when Merlin starts to babble nonsense and tugs at his hair, so he wraps a hand around the base of his dick and applies additional pressure, speeding up the sloppy movement of his mouth.

Merlin doesn’t come much later with a garbled approximation of Arthur’s name spilling from his lips and he doesn’t bother with moving away, so Arthur swallows the bitter fluid filling his mouth and listens to Merlin’s panting breath gratifyingly out of synch above him.

“So, that happened again, huh?” is the first thing Merlin says in the morning when Arthur wakes and finds Merlin lying next to him with his head propped up on his hand, studying him. 

“Shit!” Arthur says with feeling, and Merlin frowns, his eyebrows drawing together. 

“C’mon. It’s not that bad,” he says and wrinkles his nose cutely. 

Arthur rolls over onto his back and moans, flinging a hand over his eyes. “No, you’re right. This is not that bad. It’s very, very, very bad. Shit.” He squeezes his eyes shut, feeling slightly sick to his stomach. He’s been having sex with his step-brother, twice now. It’s not a one-off situation anymore, it has precedent. 

“We had some fun,” Merlin says on a huge yawn, sounding completely unperturbed, “so what? It’s not like we’re related.” 

Arthur makes a retching sound, then lifts his hand from his eyes and dares to glance over at Merlin, who has the gall to look dishevelled and beautiful in the morning sunlight falling through the blinds and painting bright stripes over Arthur’s bed. His hair glints bluish in the light and his eyes are clear and bright. Shit, Arthur thinks, shit, he still wants to reach out and fist his hand in Merlin’s hair and bite at his lips and make him moan, no matter how wrong it is.

“How can you be so… so calm about this?” Arthur asks, unable to understand how Merlin isn’t freaking out about it. 

Merlin looks at him like he’s the one who’s acting strangely and says, managing to sound infuriatingly reasonable, “It’s just sex. Really great sex, mind, but… just…”. He shrugs. “I mean, it’s not like we’re in love or something. That’d be… really weird.” 

“...right,” Arthur says after a pause, battling against the strange feeling that squirms in the pit of his stomach at Merlin’s words. 

Biting his lip, Merlin shifts closer and reaches out, trailing his hand from Arthur’s shoulder down his arm, causing goosebumps to rise on Arthur’s skin. “We’re friends. What’s so bad about some benefits?” Despite his casual words, his voice sounds slightly rough, like Arthur’s answer is of some importance, like he can’t really hide that he wants Arthur to agree with his assessment of the situation.

With Merlin looking at him like that, from under his stupidly long eyelashes and with a disarming smile playing around his lips, Arthur’s brain stupidly answers for him, despite that curious feeling nagging at him still.

“Nobody must know,” he mutters hoarsely, already turned on beyond belief by the touch of Merlin’s fingers and Merlin’s mouth quirks up a bit more, before his eyes darken. 

“Nobody will know,” Merlin promises, his voice dropping deeper and becoming gravelly, his finger drawing seductive circles on the inside of Arthur’s wrist. 

Arthur sucks in a breath and watches Merlin’s pupils dilate before he moves closer, shifting on the bed, the bedsheets slipping from his body and revealing the dip of his bony hip. 

Swallowing, Arthur licks his lips and Merlin makes a sound that is half a growl and lifts his hand to thumb his fingers over Arthur’s mouth. 

“Your mouth felt so good on me last night,” Merlin whispers, his eyes zeroing in on where his finger is stroking Arthur’s bottom lip, thumb dipping inside. “Looked pretty fucking good, too, with my cock in it.” 

“Oh God,” Arthur exhales, because Merlin has a dirty mouth on him and his body reacts to both touch and words almost instantly, his cock, which has been shamefully half-hard ever since waking up and all throughout their conversation, hardens further. 

Merlin surges forward, replacing fingers with mouth and claims his lips, pushing his tongue into Arthur’s mouth. Arthur hears a moan, isn’t sure for a moment if it’s him or Merlin or both. He pulls at Merlin’s shoulders, tugging until Merlin rolls over him, the contact of their naked bodies sliding together making him hiss. Merlin feels incredible, warm, soft skin over tight muscles and hard bones, and when he moves, his erect cock slides easily into the space next to Arthur’s. Their similar height makes all the right places slot together and Arthur wonders how it’s possible for them to feel like they were made to fit together. 

For a while, they kiss and grind against each other, until their movement gets more urgent and Merlin pushes himself away and slides down Arthur’s body, mouthing a path towards his groin with long, biting kisses, before taking his cock into his mouth like it’s a thing they just do. Arthur exhales a groan, bucking up into the sensation, his hands coming down to wind into Merlin’s hair as he grips the unruly strands, and wasn’t Merlin’s thick hair just made for grabbing and pulling? Merlin’s moans vibrate up his cock and his hands are sure and strong where they circle the base, his tongue doing a lot of wicked things Arthur also catalogues as things to try next time he’s going down on someone. 

Below him, Merlin is grinding against the sheets and Arthur’s leg, clearly turned on from sucking his cock, and Arthur gets the sudden urge to do the same, get his mouth around Merlin like he did last night. 

“Wait, wait,” he says, stalling Merlin’s movement, “can we…” He waves his hands as Merlin looks up and Merlin must understand what he means, because he utters an appreciative curse, his mouth pretty and swollen, his face flushed. 

“Yeah,... that, let’s do that,” Merlin mutters, turns around and climbs over him, and it’s weird for a moment, knees so close to his face that he’s afraid Merlin will kick him, then Merlin shifting back over him and Merlin’s dick brushing his cheeks. He’s embarrassed for all of two seconds, but then Merlin’s mouth is back on his cock as he dips his head, and Arthur decides to not think so much and takes the tip of Merlin’s cock into his mouth. 

They both moan at the same time, and it’s so intense for a moment that the sensation is almost painful, but then they find a rhythm. Arthur slides one arm up the back of Merlin’s thighs to the crease of his ass, stroking and holding on to his flank and uses the other to make sure Merlin doesn’t suddenly choke him when he thrusts down. Their muffled moans join the wet, obscene sounds of their mouths, and it’s good, so terribly good. He doesn’t know when he starts mimicking what Merlin is doing, but Merlin picks up on it and chuckles and tries something else, a press with his tongue there, a nibble there, and soon it’s a game where one of them teases the other and the other teases right back. 

Arthur’s jaw is aching and he feels like he has been hovering on the edge of orgasm for way too long. Merlin plays him skillfully, backing off when he feels like Arthur is getting too close. 

“You bastard,” Arthur mutters out as he takes a much needed panting breath, whimpering when Merlin chuckles around his cock. He brushes his mouth against Merlin’s dick again, the taste and weight of it on his tongue familiar by now and addicting. His mouth and chin are wet with spit and precome and it should be disgusting, but it only turns him on more. 

When Merlin’s fingers suddenly slide behind his balls and rub sneakily at his pucker, Arthur nearly bucks him off, embarrassed at the sound that escapes him. Merlin’s fingers retreat for a moment, before returning, wet with spit as they rub against him, a fingertip catching on the rim. Arthur nearly loses the rhythm he had going on Merlin’s cock, but is determined to not chicken out and reaches up, sliding his own fingers in the crease of Merlin’s arse until they slide over the hole. He hasn’t done that before, not with another bloke, but it’s pretty easy to mimic the exploration of Merlin’s fingers. 

Merlin is rubbing and pressing, circling the rim and suggesting to dip his finger inside, and Arthur feels heat shoot up through his body, feels his limbs become laden, orgasm drawing closer as his muscles tighten. His mouth falls slack, as he forgets all about rhythm and sucking cock and then he’s coming, shuddering through it with Merlin’s mouth on him and his finger playing with his pucker. 

He pants through the aftermath, drawing breath desperately into his lungs, embarrassed that he apparently let Merlin slip from his mouth at some point. Merlin almost knees him in the face again as he turns around and slides into his lap, looking at him with a pleased and wicked grin, before reaching for his hand. 

He sucks two fingers of Arthur’s right hand into his mouth and holds his gaze, swirling his tongue around them, before letting them go and directing Arthur’s hand down. He lifts himself up, eyes heavy-lidded and his gaze intense, then crooks Arthur’s fingers and presses them against his opening. 

“Fuck,” Arthur breathes out just at the same time as Merlin’s eyes drops shut and his body curves, a wrecked moan spilling from his lips. He’s gorgeous, pale skin, flushed face, his cock heavy and hard and leaking and he feels so hot around Arthur’s fingers. 

“Yes,” Merlin moans and directs Arthur’s fingers where he wants them, and Arthur just stares, wide-eyed and overwhelmed, when Merlin bites his lip and wraps his free hand around himself. When Merlin starts to stroke himself, Arthur finally manages to overcome his sudden paralysis and he starts taking over, instinctively moving his fingers, laughing when more wrecked and dirty groans spill from Merlin’s lips. 

“You’re fucking beautiful,” he breathes, because it’s true, and his eyes hungrily take in the abandomentment on Merlin’s face, the small furrows on his brow, the slackness of his jaw and the soft set of his plush mouth. 

Merlin makes an inarticulate sound and speeds up the strokes of his hand and Arthur adjusts the speed of his fingers fucking into Merlin, loving how Merlin just goes wild above him, before his whole body suddenly bows and he comes in long stripes of pearly white all over Arthur’s stomach. 

He slumps forward, catches himself on one hand, stroking himself slowly through the aftershocks and Arthur thinks that this, right there, is the sexiest moment of his life so far and it isn’t fair that it’s with Merlin of all people. Merlin, who is probably the most devastatingly sexy being on this planet and also Arthur’s stepbrother. 

Merlin slumps forward some more, wincing when Arthur pulls his fingers out, then sinks down on the mess of Arthur’s stomach, snuffling happily into the side of Arthur’s neck. 

“... ghhh,” he makes, sounding giddy, then, “See… Good Sex. Not bad at all.” 

“Shut the fuck up,” Arthur mutters and clubs him over the head with the flat of his hand. His words doesn’t have the desired effect, because he sounds sex-rough and content and Merlin chuckles, then stretches like a cat, not caring that his come squishes disgustingly between their bellies and they’ll be in need of a shower soon.


	8. Part 1: 2014 - Chapter 8

“Merlin! Arthur! We’ll be leaving in five minutes!” Hunith’s voice rings out from downstairs, and she sounds just a little impatient.

Against Arthur’s lips, Merlin breathes out a small moan of regret. “I wish we could stay here…” he mutters mournfully, tongue darting out to lap over Arthur’s bottom lip like he can’t restrain himself.

“We can’t,” Arthur says, trying to sound reasonable, which isn’t easy, considering they have been trying to get properly dressed for the last forty minutes. He unwillingly reaches down and circles Merlin’s bony wrists with his fingers, prying them from where Merlin is clutching the fabric of his shirt.

Merlin then honest to God pouts at him, before sighing audibly. “You’re right,” he complains, but Arthur figures they have made progress, because he’s not reaching for him again, but instead finishes pulling up his corduroy trousers over his hips, fastening them quickly. They are a hideous colour, a dirty yellow, and they look like he pulled them out of the 1 pound bin at Oxfam, but they are soft to the touch (Arthur can confirm) and fit him nicely (Arthur can confirm that, too).

“Merlin!” Hunith calls and she sounds closer now, and Merlin looks wide-eyed for a moment before he bursts into soft laughter, then shoves at Arthur, ushering him through the bathroom door. “Go, go,” he says, giving him a push that makes Arthur trip over his jeans still somewhat awkwardly punched between his legs.

Merlin shuts the door behind him, and a second later Arthur hears Hunith enter Merlin’s room.

“We have reservations at 1, Merlin,” Hunith says, sounding stressed. “You know that Uther doesn’t like tardiness.”

“I know,” Merlin mutters, sounding annoyed and Arthur grins at the petulance in his voice.

He pulls up his jeans and straightens his t-shirt, wondering if it’s okay if he uses the sink to wash up quickly, or if it’ll be weird, considering that Hunith is just behind the door.

“Your room is a terrible pig sty,” he hears Hunith’s voice clearly through the door, and Arthur flushes, thinking of how she must have seen the ruffled and stained bedclothes, and it makes him feel slightly sick and all kinds of nervous.

He can’t understand Merlin’s answering rumble over the rushing in his ears and he feels so embarrassed standing there that he decides to flee to his own room. His heart is beating a mile a minute and his fingers are trembling as he fixes his clothes. He gives himself a once over in the mirror by his door, taking in his flushed and rumpled appearance and cards his fingers through his hair, trying to make it look less like someone had their sweaty hands fisted into it all weekend.

There’s a knock on his door and he calls, “I’m coming!” before Hunith can even open it all the way.

“Morning,” he mutters and ducks his head, and his voice comes out all squeaky and wrong. He clears his throat and gives her what he hopes is a careless smile, before brushing past her and all but racing down the hallway to the stairs.

In the car, Morgana and Uther are already waiting and Morgana gives him a long, disapproving look that clearly spells out that Uther has been complaining about their whereabouts. Arthur slides into the seat next to Morgana and avoids her gaze, relieved when she doesn’t say anything.

A few seconds later, Merlin slides into the seat next to him, grinning from ear to ear when Arthur turns to look at him. He looks rosy cheeked and awake and somehow managed to pull himself together better than Arthur. Maybe it’s because Merlin has perfected the just-tumbled-out-of-bed look, or maybe it’s because Arthur is clearly biased. Merlin has raccoon eyes from smeared make-up, there’s a pimple on his chin and a smattering of stubble, but he’s glowing and full of energy and Arthur thinks back to an hour earlier when he was a beautiful mess in the sheets under him, pressing their hips together and whispering dirty suggestions into his ear.

He flushes and looks away, hoping nobody saw him eye Merlin like he is a particularly tasty treat. Hunith slides into the front seat, having closed up the house, and Uther starts the car, the engine rumbling to life gently.

“All aboard?” Hunith asks cheerfully and turns in her seat to look at them.

Arthur nods, hears Morgana and Merlin mumble something affirmative, but despondent.

“I swear, teenagers,” Hunith mutters good-naturedly and rolls her eyes, before turning forward.

Merlin snorts and says, “It’s your own fault you weren’t content with just me and decided to get two more.”

Hunith laughs and looks back over her shoulder again. “Oh, honey, you’re already a handful. Arthur and Morgana are much more well-behaved. They really don’t factor into the equation much.”

“You’d be surprised,” Merlin mutters sotto voce and Arthur kicks his elbow into Merlin’s side, willing him to shut up.

He doesn’t understand the easy rapport between Merlin and Hunith, the teasing quality to a lot of their conversations, the way they roast each other more like friends than family. The relationship he has with Uther is determined by stiltedness and awkward conversations. He wishes he remembered more about his mother, of the conversations they probably had, but all he recalls are single moments or rather, the feelings he had in these moments. When he thinks about it, the ache of loss rears up in him again, painful and immediate. He doubts he’ll ever get rid of that sense of loss, wondering if the ache of all the could-have-beens that never came to pass will fade with time.

Uther has turned on the radio and they listen to the BBCs Desert Island Discs with Lauren Laverne, a show Arthur has always enjoyed, ever since he was a little kid. It’s comforting and he’s grateful for it, because he’s still jittery with nerves, as if everybody knows from just looking at him that he spent most of the last thirty-six hours getting off with Merlin.

The weekend so far has felt like a fever dream. They have barely come up for breath since waking on Saturday morning after Merlin’s concert, stumbling from one bed to the other, taking showers in between only to get messy when barely dry again. Next to him, Merlin’s heat is practically calling to him. His fingers itch to reach out, like Merlin is a particularly potent drug.

The drive is short and they arrive at the restaurant just in time. Uther parks in a garage closeby, and they climb out, Arthur feeling every single one of his muscles protest. He suppresses a wince, wondering how it’s possible to feel so battered just from a bit of roughhousing between the sheets.

It’s Morgana’s sixteenth birthday, and she was allowed to pick the restaurant, a snazzy, chic place in Belgravia.

“Shit,” Merlin says wide-eyed when he sees the restaurant’s front, and secretly, Arthur agrees, because it’s pretty high-end, with beautifully and stylishly set up tables with pristine white tablecloths.

“You could have at least made an effort,” Uther says disapprovingly with a pointed and annoyed glance at Arthur’s outfit as he passes him to hold the door open for Morgana and Hunith.

Flushing, Arthur pushes his hands into his jeans and tries to pretend his t-shirt isn’t one he’s been alternately tossing to the floor or pulling on over sweaty skin all weekend, and follows his father.

Morgana’s birthday lunch is as always quite a treat, but the real highlight is the cake the waiters bring out for dessert, a pink-frosted, lopsided monstrosity with a giant sugar unicorn on top that apparently Hunith baked herself. Half the restaurant is singing Happy Birthday, people who don’t even know whom they are singing to are chiming in, and Morgana is embarrassed and beaming as she throws her arms around Hunith, all but sobbing into her shoulder.

Arthur watches and wonders bitterly if she remembers how their Mom used to bake them birthday cakes. Arthur remembers his cakes well, perfect, chocolate frosted round shapes with a different assortment of sweets piled on top of it every year.

He doesn’t feel too bitter though, not with the way Morgana is so happy and excited and stuffing insane amounts of cake into her mouth, so he lets Hunith cut him a slice as well and digs in, having to admit that it’s a pretty great cake.

He licks frosting from his lips and looks up to find Merlin grin at him from the other side of the table, his teeth full of pink frosting, the hickey Arthur must have put on his neck this weekend prominent in deep purple just to the right side of the collar of his white shirt.

Afterwards, they visit the British Museum, because Morgana is nothing but predictable, and it has been her favourite birthday excursion for three years now. Arthur suspects it has to do with the fact that history is one of the few things that gets Uther excited and he and Morgana bond over geeking out over ancient artefacts.

Morgana and Uther head to the upper floor towards the Roman Britain section, dragging Hunith, who has no preference, with them. Merlin turns left on the ground floor and after a moment of indecision, Arthur follows him to Ancient Egypt. For a while they wander through the rooms, looking at artefacts, occasionally finding themselves drawn towards the same exhibits, like the inevitable and fascinating Rosetta Stone or the two monumental winged chimeras that used to flank the entrance of an Assyran palace.

Arthur is acutely aware of Merlin’s presence, so he’s surprised when he looks up from perusing a horse statue from the Mausoleum of Halikarnassos to find him gone. He wanders into the next room and sees him standing in front of a couple of small busts next to a large stone slab with a Greek inscription, his hands thrust into the pockets of his trousers.

He walks up to him and settles in the space next to him and it’s strange, the feeling of contentment that washes over him all of a sudden, as if just standing near Merlin makes him feel whole, unafraid and strong. Arthur thinks of their bodies slotting together like pieces of a puzzle and how similar this feels, just occupying the same space.

“Alexander,” Merlin says softly, and he sounds fond, like he’s speaking of a friend, someone he knows and thinks highly of.

Arthur looks at the marble bust, at the square jaw and broad nose, the long, curly hair and the soft smile on his lips. He must have passed it a lot of times already, but he hasn’t ever stopped to look. Now, looking at it, he can’t believe he has walked past it. He suddenly wants to draw, bring his pencils and sit down in the gallery and try his hand at all these classical forms.

“When I come here, I always visit him,” Merlin says, but he’s still not looking at Arthur, but at the bust in front of them.

“I can see why, “ Arthur says teasingly, “He’s… hot.” He enjoys the burst of Merlin’s laughter and smiles to himself.

“You know how they say he was conquered only once and that was by his lover’s thighs?” Merlin asks, and he looks sideways, smirking his wicked little grin.

“They did? Who?”

“Some philosopher, can’t remember.” Merlin shrugs and turns towards the portrait bust again. “It’s a great story. The world conqueror and his second in command. Best friends who fought together on the battlefield. He too is Alexander, that’s what Alexander said about Hephaistion. He went mad when Hephaistion died and made him to be worshipped as a god.”

“Sounds very romantic,” Arthur says dryly, only for Merlin to dig his elbow in his side.

“Shut up,” Merlin hisses, blushing a bit, red creeping up his cheeks and staining his prominent cheekbones, and Arthur is delighted by his reaction. Merlin is silent for a bit, then says, his voice very low, “Don’t you wish you had a friend like that? Someone who knows your weaknesses and strengths, who stands by you, no matter what? Who won’t mind you’re an arse sometimes, because they know you so deeply, they might as well be you?”

He sounds wistful and Arthur is surprised at the way Merlin’s voice has gone soft, at the emotion in his words. He never took Merlin for a romantic, rather the opposite.

“Who wouldn’t,” Arthur agrees, then adds on a lighter note, “Sex must be a bit boring, though. All that masturbation.”

Merlin’s laugh is loud in the otherwise quiet gallery. They remain standing in front of the bust for a little while longer. The moment is charged with something Arthur doesn’t dare put a name to. He traces the lines of Alexander’s face but all he sees is Merlin. His sharp cheekbones, his soft lips, the cut of his jaw, his blue eyes. He startles when Merlin’s fingers brush against the back of his hand. Deliberate? Yes, there they are again.

Arthur sucks in a startled breath, his fingers trembling as he mimics the movement, the touch sparking up his arm like a lightning bolt. He hears Merlin’s breathing, suddenly loud and laboured and when he looks up, Merlin is already staring at him, eyes hungrily fixed onto his lips.

With a somewhat bothered sigh, Merlin wraps his fingers around his hands and pulls, and Arthur stumbles after him and down a small flight of stairs into a room full of statues on slate gray pedestals. Merlin hurries through the gallery without looking at the displays, tugging Arthur along, then takes a sharp right turn into the next room.

Arthur has been here before, he distinctly remembers this room with its grand monument on one side, a tomb in the form of a temple put up on a high podium, but he doesn’t get to look, because Merlin drags him to the far side of it and then presses their mouths together. He still tastes like cake and underneath it there’s the unique spiciness of his mouth Arthur learned to recognise as Merlin being turned on.

Groaning, Arthur fists his hands into Merlin’s clothes and allows Merlin to plunder his mouth. It’s familiar by now and still exciting and he wishes he could do this forever - holding on to Merlin and kissing him like there’s not much else in life. Merlin’s mouth is hot and wet, his kisses almost hypnotic, like the gentle waves of the sea dragging him into the surf.

He doesn’t know how long they’ve been kissing, but then a throat clears from somewhere to Arthur’s right, and when they break apart, flushed and panting, a museum security guard in black clothes looks pointedly at them.

“Fuck,” Merlin mutters, looking embarrassed for once, but he brushes down his trousers and legs it around the monument, his shoulders shaking with silent laughter. Arthur’s heart is pounding as he follows more sedately, angry with himself for completely losing his head.

They wander aimlessly through the rooms on the ground floor, but neither of them are stopping to really look at an exhibit anymore. Arthur’s head feels slightly fuzzy, his thoughts a whirlwind he can’t grasp. Back in the Great Court, they run into Morgana and Hunith, who have bought ice cream at the vendors, while Uther is looking through the offerings in the museum’s bookshop.

“Where were you?” Morgana asks, licking at her ice cone. “I thought you wanted to see the mummies, Arthur. You always want to see the mummies!”

“Uh… I guess not today. Spent some time in the Greek section,” he explains.

“Merlin loves the Greeks, too,” Hunith says. “I can’t remember the last time we were on the upper floor together.”

“There’s just coins and vases upstairs,” Merlin mutters, his expression making it clear what he thinks of that.

“Mummies!” Morgana pipes up, clearly hopped up on sugar.

“It’s just dead people,” Merlin shrugs, as if he didn’t get excited and emotional in front of the bust of one long-dead world conqueror.

Morgana gives him a glare, looking offended on the mummies’ behalf. “Damn, it finally happened - Arthur infected you with his boring personality and now I have two dumb brothers.”

“Hey,” Merlin grouses, clearly miffed. “Just because I happen to find it boring to stare at long dead people…”

“Alexander,” Arthur coughs from behind his fist, unable to help himself, smirking when Merlin rounds on him, his eyes dark and stormy.

“What? He’s hot!” Merlin says impulsively, and Morgana starts to giggle, clearly amused by Merlin’s indignation.

“Traitor,” Merlin mutters darkly, but when Morgana’s laughter has subsided and Arthur chances a side glance at him, Merlin is looking back at him, a small secretive smile playing around his lips.

“I wish I could go on an adventure,” Merlin says from his place perched on Arthur’s swivel chair at his desk, absentmindedly leafing through the papers heaped there.

He’s sucking on a lollipop he found in Arthur’s desk drawer forgotten there ages ago, sitting with one knee pulled up to his chest, the muscles in his back shifting as he moves the papers around, taking his time in looking through the drawings, some of which Arthur has started to shade with watercolors as an experiment.

“Hmmm?” Arthur asks from where he’s lying on the bed, looking through the current cinema listings on his phone for a movie they might want to watch this weekend.

Arthur has been trying to distract himself for the last five minutes while Merlin has been going through his drawings one by one, studying them intently but silently. He’s anxious about Merlin judging his art, but so far Merlin has been pretty quiet after his initial excitement about finding out that Arthur draws. His silence is pure torture, because Arthur has no idea if Merlin thinks his art is any good and Arthur is in desperate need of validation. After all, Merlin is the first person who is allowed to see more than a random sketch in his notebook at school. His heart is pounding with nervous excitement, his stomach feeling sickly with anxiety. Maybe Merlin hates it. Maybe Merlin thinks he’s horrible.

“Like a road trip, or something.” Merlin shifts on the chair and turns towards Arthur, quirking his lips and letting his eyes roam over Arthur’s body. His gaze makes Arthur shiver, regardless of the fact that they had been naked together only half an hour earlier, making him forget about his nervousness for just a moment.

Arthur lowers his phone and glances back at him, secretly pleased with how Merlin looks sitting on his chair, his hair in disarray from Arthur’s fingers, fading love-bite on his flank, his eyes soft and half-lidded.

“Like in a Jack Kerouac novel?” he counters. He desperately wants to hear Merlin talk about his art, but he doesn’t want to seem needy.

Merlin grins and takes the lollipop from his mouth. “Exactly like in a Kerouac novel. Apple pies, ice cream and lots of sex. Interesting people with interesting stories. Poets. Drugs. The open road. All that shit,” he says, waving around the lollipop as he speaks.

Arthur mulls over it for a moment, before an idea forms in his mind. “We could do that,” he offers, sitting up as excitement takes him over, Merlin’s missing response about his art forgotten. “Half Term is in two weeks. We could go.”

The idea of it takes root in his mind almost immediately: Getting out of London for a weekend or longer, driving a car somewhere into the relatively unknown, exploring the countryside. And much more satisfying: Having Merlin’s undivided attention by his side.

With a frown he considers the last three weeks, ever since that crazed weekend which he spent almost exclusively with Merlin rolling around naked in the sheets. After that first initial headless weekend, things have calmed down a bit. They are both busy now with school, work and band practice. Merlin is going out or meeting his friends, returning in the early hours of the morning. He doesn’t bring anyone home like he used to - Arthur knows this, because he listens to the noises when Merlin stumbles in at 2 a.m. - but Arthur really doesn’t know if he’s still seeing people. He doesn’t know if it’s his place to ask. It’s not like they are anything to each other, apart from friends, who get each other off in quite creative ways whenever the opportunity presents itself.

“You can drive?” Merlin asks, surprised, putting down the drawing he’s scrutinising.

“Got my driver’s license this spring after I turned seventeen,” Arthur confirms. He sits up and swings his legs over the side of his bed. “Maybe Leon will lend me his car - he’s flying to France to visit his grandparents, he won’t need it.”

Pulling up his second leg, Merlin hugs his knees to his chest, the lollipop pushed into the corner of his mouth. “Where would we go?”

“Manchester. Bristol. Cardiff. Glasgow, … wherever,” Arthur suggests, not very partial to the destination, more hung up on the idea of sharing space with Merlin for a couple of days without having to look over his shoulder to see if anyone has noticed him looking at Merlin or touching him in a way inappropriate for their new sibling relationship.

From his perch on the chair, Merlin snorts out a laugh. “We’d have to pick a destination. We can’t do all of the UK in seven days or so. But actually,I always wanted to see Bristol. They have a great club scene.”

“We could go to Bristol and then drive on. Go hiking in Wales.”

“I said sex, drugs and rock’n roll,” Merlin laughs and rolls his eyes, “not crawling through the wilderness. Seriously, nature boy.”

Arthur chucks a pillow at his head, snorting when it puts Merlin’s hair into disarray.

“Oi,” Merlin complains and glares.

“It’s why I’m fit,” he says.

“You’re fit because you wrestle other guys on a pitch for a stupid ball twice a week,” Merlin mutters and picks up the pillow to chuck back at Arthur. “It’s such a stupid, gay game - like someone invented it just so men can roll around in the grass with other men while crying no homo.”

Arthur picks up the pillow from where it landed next to him on the bed after hitting his chest and shoves it under his head as he scoots back to lean his back against the wall, snickering at Merlin’s description of rugby. “I promise you sex and beers and you can play your crazy music all day long.”

Merlin’s mouth quirks and his expression softens. “I could be swayed,” he says flirtatiously, then pops the empty lollipop stick out of his mouth and tosses it carelessly onto Arthur’s desk.

“We can pack the trunk with books, so you can read me poetry by the light of a torch. You still owe me a reading of The Happy Prince, by the way.”

“That’s quite romantic, but what do you mean with ‘by the light of a torch?’ In what world did I agree to go camping with you? It’s almost November, you clotpole. We’d be freezing to death.”

Arthur waggles his eyebrow, enjoying the banter tremendously. “I’ll keep you warm,” he says smarmingly.

“I prefer to fuck in a bed, thank you,” Merlin counters and pushes himself off the desk to go a round with the swivel chair.

“You are so terribly vanilla,” Arthur shoots back, delighted when Merlin just rolls his eyes.

He thinks of driving around all day, hiking through the woods, being with Merlin all the time, maybe returning to that one mad weekend. He wonders where that would lead to, if they would go farther than what they’ve been doing so far when they don’t have to hide or lock themselves up in one of their rooms. The thought makes his mouth go dry. He doesn’t realise that they haven’t said anything for a while, when Merlin suddenly speaks up.

“This is really good. Have you considered applying for art school?”

Merlin is holding one of Arthur’s recent drawings, a strange and fantastic building made from tree trunks and glass that sits precariously on the edge of a cliff. Its wide terrace has a glass bottom and an inlaid glass swimming pool and looms over the abyss. Someone is swimming in the pool and it looks like they are floating in thin air over the abyss, the roaring waves hitting the cliffs below. He’s been having fun with surrealistic imagery lately, scenes that look just slightly odd and make the viewer pause and look closer.

“Art school?” Arthur asks doubtfully, briefly thrown by Merlin finally reacting to his art. For some reason, Merlin’s suggestion is outrageous and shocking and Arthur can truly claim that he has never thought about it. The idea seems almost sacrilegious in the Pendragon household.

“Your art is fantastic,” Merlin says, sounding genuinely awed. “They’d be stupid to not take you.”

Arthur blushes deeply, pleased by Merlin’s words but also embarrassed to hear someone praise his work and he shrugs helplessly, then watches as Merlin puts the drawing aside gently and picks up another one.

There’s a knock on the door interrupting Arthur’s thoughts and seconds later, Morgana barges in, startling him, making him nearly topple off the bed. He really ought to use the key on the door more, he thinks, alarmed, wincing when he imagines she could have come in half an hour earlier while Arthur had been doing rather filthy things to Merlin’s bum.

Morgana looks comfortably rumbled in tartan pyjamas and with her hair messily piled on top of her head, her face looking very young and rosy without her usually dramatic make-up.

“Hey, losers,” Morgana says when she spots the two of them, “just giving you a heads up, because I’m an awesome sister: Hunith is making French toast.”

“How very selfless of you. What do you want?” Arthur asks, anxiously asking himself if she wonders about the fact that Merlin is sitting there in his pyjama bottoms and Arthur is only wearing boxer shorts and a tank top, but it mustn’t be too suspicious, because she doesn’t bat an eye.

Morgana shrugs. “Can’t I be nice for a chance? Does there have to be a reason?”

Merlin hops from the swivel chair and stretches his arms over his head, his shoulder popping audibly. “You’re never just nice, Arthur is right to mistrust you… But I’m willing to drop the topic, because: French toast,” he says on a yawn. Arthur tries not to stare at his flat belly and the way the muscles there just give a hint of abs.

“No strings attached. Just - a friendly sisterly service," Morgana says slyly, and there’s something in her eyes Arthur doesn’t like a bit. He sees her eyes flit towards the desk where Arthur’s drawings are still lying out in the open and as casually as possible, Arthur walks over towards the desk and stacks them neatly, holding them in a way he hopes makes it impossible for Morgana to recognise what the papers are about.

Merlin watches him curiously for a second, but then seems to realise why Arthur is acting so shiftily. “Let’s go, we don’t want to be late for French toast,” Merlin says and reaches for Morgana’s arm, marching them both towards the door, and Arthur does certainly not ogle his pale back and the dip of muscles there. He is so doomed.

He breathes a sigh of relief when Morgana follows Merlin out the door, like she really doesn’t have another agenda but fetch them for breakfast.

Merlin stops in his own room to pick a shirt up from the floor to shrug on, and together, the three of them bound down the stairs, Morgana ahead, skipping the last steps before each landing and hauling herself around corners, like Arthur and her did when they were little. It makes Arthur smile and forget that he thought she was suspicious, and he nearly crashes into Merlin when he suddenly stops on the last flight of stairs and turns to place a hand on Arthur’s chest.

“The road trip. We’re doing this?” Merlin asks, and he looks like a puppy who is demanding a treat, like Arthur’s answer means the world to him.

Arthur nods, his throat suddenly dry, and Merlin beams back at him and claps his shoulder twice. “Good. But remember your promises.”

“Idiot,” Arthur mutters, but Merlin’s smile makes him feel warm all over.

“So this is your step-brother,” Elena says, sounding pleased, as she lets them into the house, giving Merlin a quick once-over. “You didn’t tell me he was cute. I should have invited one of my single girlfriends.”

“He’s not cute,” Arthur says, “more like aggravating, obnoxious and bothersome.” He loves Elena and he has known her for three years now, but he’s so fed up with how it always seems to be about matchmaking these days, as if being with someone, no matter how ill-fitted was the most important thing in all of their lives.

Merlin doesn’t seem to be bothered, though, because he rolls his eyes goodnaturedly at Arthur’s words and grins at Elena. “What he says. Also, gay. Sorry for your girlfriends.”

Arthur bites his lip, completely baffled how blasè Merlin is acting and curiously awaiting Elena’s reaction. It’s one of these moments where he feels uncomfortably guilty for not being out to his friends and also incredibly jealous of the ease in which Merlin is.

To his astonishment, Elena giggles like Merlin is a particularly charming specimen of the human race and shows them to the living room, where Leon, Lance and Mithian, Elena’s best friend, are already sprawled over the couches.

The introduction is brief, because they have already started playing Exploding Kittens and are in that frantic and all-consuming stage mid-game where winning is the most important action, but Arthur doesn’t miss the curious look Leon sends his way as he settles down next to Merlin. He can’t blame Leon, the last time they talked about Arthur’s new home situation, he complained bitterly about Merlin being a complete dick and here they are, Merlin accompanying Arthur to Elena’s board game evening. Truth be told, when Elena invited Arthur, he had already planned to go to the cinema with Merlin, so Elena asked Merlin to spontaneously tag along. Arthur wasn’t sure if Merlin wouldn’t find an evening playing board games with Arthur’s friends lame, but Merlin had easily agreed to come with him instead of going to the cinema, like he was genuinely interested in meeting Arthur’s friends.

After Elena wins for what is apparently the third consecutive time, they start a round of Settlers of Catan, using one of the Extension Sets to accommodate six players. Merlin claims to have never played it before, but he gets mega competitive once he gets the hang of it and actually wins the game with a combination of luck and good strategy.

They order pizza and open a couple of cans of beer afterwards. Arthur is acutely aware of Merlin sitting cross legged at his right side, the heat of his body pressing up against him whenever Merlin shifts. He feels distracted whenever their elbows bump together. Merlin has his button-down rolled up to his elbows and Arthur can’t help but find his gaze drawn to Merlin’s strong forearms, narrow wrists and long, slender fingers as Merlin gesticulates when he talks.

Elena divides them up for a game of Randomise while they wait for the pizza to arrive, and it’s just as hilarious as ever as they act out, scribble or describe the strangest identities possible. Arthur didn’t expect Merlin to get so excited about board games in front of Arthur’s friends, but he’s just as animated and goofy as when they giggle over bad memes late at night hanging around in one of their rooms.

“He’s not vicious, he’s…” Merlin explains, glancing at his card and frowning.

“...brutal… mean… cruel…” Arthur suggests, then crows in triumph when Merlin starts frantically pointing at him. “Cruel. Cruel!”

Merlin gives him the thumbs up. “It’s Bhanu from the London zoo. Going to the red planet!”

Leon just stares while everyone else laughs.

“Cruel…lion… flying to Mars!” Arthur shouts and Merlin whoops and says, “Almost! Almost… he’s not flying there, he’s already arriving, like in a little space capsule, like the Mars dot dot dot..”

“He lands on Mars. Cruel lion landing on Mars!” Arthur cries, and Merlin whoops again, tosses the card over his shoulder and lunges forward, tackling Arthur against the couch with such force, that they topple over the side and hit the ground hard.

“That was impressive,” Elena says, her voice just that side of sour, because she really doesn’t like it when people are even more competitive than her. “Twenty-one seconds.”

Grunting, Merlin pushes himself up, his hair sticking up wildly, his face flushed. “We can do better!” he says, as he pulls Arthur to his feet.

He’s right. They manage Wet Unicorn putting on make-up in 18 seconds, because all Merlin says is “Moist - Morgana’s Cake Topper - me last night in the bathroom” and it takes Arthur just two takes of “Damp unicorn pissing”, (which has everyone in shambles) and “Wet unicorn brushing its teeth” to get it right.

The pizza arrives then, and for a while all they do is stuff food into their mouths. Elena once again shows off her talent for burping, making everyone roll their eyes and laugh.

Merlin is beaming and joking with Mithian and Arthur almost hates him for not being totally awkward when meeting new people. He’s terribly good at making friends, sunny and kind and sarcastically witty. Afterwards, Elena and Mithian drag out Twister. Arthur refuses, because he’s too full to bend strangely, so he and Leon, who never plays Twister because he’s terribly inflexible even for a rugby player are stuck dialing the spinner, while the other four position themselves around the plastic mat.

For a while, the game goes slow, but four people on the mat is a tight fit, and soon Lance, Elena, Mithian and Merlin have trouble finding suitable circles, falling all over each other amidst a lot of laughter.

“Mithian - right leg - in the air!” Leon calls out, and Mithian, who has one hand up already starts to wobble precariously, screeching a warning, before she tumbles over, taking Merlin and Lance down with her.

“I’m done!” Merlin groans and dramatically falls onto his back, flopping out his arms and legs beside the mat like a starfish. Mithian lies face-down on the mat and gasps for air, just barely breathing. Lance scrambles to his feet moaning and hobbles towards the bathroom, muttering how Twister is more dangerous than being on the rugby field and it was his last time playing it.

“You lot are pathetic,” Elena murmurs, looking disgusted as she rolls over and sits up, wiping dust from her jeans.

“You know,” Leon says, taking a sip from his beer before leaning towards Arthur almost conspiratorially, “he’s quite alright. Your step-brother.”

Arthur nods, follows Leon’s line of sight and bites back a smile at the way Merlin is still sprawled on the floor, his shirt rucked up, sweat pearling on his forehead. “Yeah. I know. We…we actually get along fine now.”

Leon snorts. “Fine? You get on like a house on fire,” he laughs and looks incredulous at him.

Blushing, Arthur twists his beer bottle in his hands and looks away from Merlin, only to find Leon’s eyes on him again, curious.

“I guess,” Arthur says reluctantly, and takes another sip from his beer, not liking the way Leon is watching him, with that knowing look in his eyes, the one that says, we’ve been friends for seven years now and you can’t fool me.

“Never have I ever is next,” Elena decides, then reaches for the plastic mat and pulls, uncaring that both Merlin and Mithian are still sprawled out on it.

“Noo,” Mithian whimpers, resisting when Elena starts pulling at her feet. “How old are you? Five?” she complains.

“Up, up,” Elena crows and tugs Mithian off the mat relentlessly, “up with you, you lazy sods!”

“Leon. She’s terrorizing our friends again,” Arthur quips and Leon sends him a long-suffering gaze, before putting down the beer bottle and walking over to Elena, gently prying her hands from Mithian’s calves.

“Hey, El. El. Let’s give them a break, yes?” Leon says softly, and then whispers something as Elena complains. Arthur watches as they talk, Elena explaining something and making funny faces with Leon listening patiently and snorting at her antics, before she rolls her eyes at him and then leans forward to kiss him. They both giggle afterwards, so clearly besotted with each other, it’s painful to watch.

Arthur looks away, feeling wistful, not wanting to be caught staring. They’ve been with each other for over a year now and they are so good together, the boisterous, tomboyish Elena and Leon, thoughtful and attentive. He’s happy for his friend, but he always, always feels a bout of jealousy at witnessing what they have. He wants that, a relationship with someone who makes him feel like that, who cares for him but also makes him laugh.

Unbidden, he thinks of standing in front of the bust of Alexander The Great at the British Museum with Merlin. Of Merlin’s words about wanting a friend to stand by you, no matter what, of the yearning he voiced that was similar to what Arthur is craving. He thinks of their fingers brushing and shudders, wishing Merlin was someone other than who he is.

On the tv screen, Tony Stark is attempting to fly his second prototype for the very first time, effectively ruining the paint job on his classic car collection in the process. Usually, Arthur loves all Marvel films and especially those with Iron Man. Not only is he a great character, but Robert Downey Jr. is funny and on point and also really nice to look at. Tonight, he can’t really bring up the concentration needed to follow the movie.

Next to him on the couch, Merlin is curled up with his knees drawn to his chest, blanket draped over his legs, one hand paused in the bowl of popcorn on his lap. He’s watching with rapt attention, occasionally stuffing a handful of popcorn into his mouth, chewing absentmindedly and spilling the kennels everywhere. He looks about five years old, his hair tousled, his eyes very, very focused.  
It’s hard to imagine this is the same Merlin that argued ancient Greek Philosophy with him this evening over dinner in the kitchen.

_(“Platonic idealism is the very opposite of scientific thinking,” Merlin had argued, stuffing Lentil Bolognese into his mouth. “An idea is much more real and universal, than the real thing.”  
“How can an idea be more real than a real thing?” Morgana had asked, frowning._

_“An idea is like eternal truth - it’s always one thing - and you can think about it, it can exist in your mind, you can see it in front of your mind’s eyes, but you can not look at it in the real world and find the exact same thing. So when you think of a tree, for example, you have a very specific idea of a tree in your mind. But you’ll never find that perfect tree in real life.”_

_“This is very real Bolognese,” Arthur had said, pointing at his plate, just because he wanted to be a jerk. “Real good,” he had added, winking at Annie, their housekeeper, who beamed like she had just won the Big Family Cooking Showdown. She had become really enthusiastic about cooking vegan food ever since it was clear that with Hunith’s irregular shifts as a nurse, she would stay on as a housekeeper._

_“It’s not real Bolognese,” Morgana had muttered, daintily forking up more of the spaghetti. “It’s fake. Real Bolognese has meat. But it’s real good.”_

_Merlin had giggled and washed down his bite with water. “Thank you guys for proving Plato right.”_

_Arthur had been very tempted to toss a lentil at him, just because he was so smug.)_

Now, Merlin giggles again, snickering quietly about one of Tony Stark’s juvenile, sarcastic and petulant quips, and Arthur bites his lip to smash down the delight he feels rising up in him. He must have made a sound, though, because Merlin stills and turns to look at him to find him watching.

Arthur blushes, glad that it’s dark in the living room, the only light coming from the screen. On an armchair in front of them, Morgana has slumped down, her head lolling over the armrest, chest rising gently with her even breaths.

In the flickering blue light from the screen, Merlin looks pale and thoughtful. He fishes his hand out of the bowl of popcorn, then pops his salty fingers into his mouth, licking the salt off. The sight makes Arthur shudder, reminds him of Merlin tongueing Arthur’s come from between his digits two nights ago, the way Merlin’s hand had shot out to grab his wrist and then, while holding Arthur’s eyes, had brought Arthur’s hand up to his mouth, cleaning his fingers effectively and with little kitten licks.

He’s so lost in looking at Merlin’s stupidly handsome face that he startles when he feels a touch to his groin. He looks down to see Merlin’s fingers slide over his joggers, before creeping past the waistband unceremoniously and slipping inside, circling his half-hard dick, which springs to life so quickly it makes Arthur dizzy. His mouth falls open on a silent curse. Beneath the fabric of his jogging pants, Merlin’s hand is moving in jerky, fluid motion.

When Arthur looks up, Merlin has turned his gaze back towards the tv, like he’s not just getting Arthur off on the couch with sure, even strokes. The only indication that he’s only half following the movie is the glassiness of his eyes and the way he chews on his bottom lip.  


On the armchair, Morgana shifts and grumbles, and just like that Arthur is catching up with what the hell they are doing, well, what Merlin is actually doing, and he pushes Merlin’s arm away and gets up, swaying slightly. For a moment he just stands there, knowing he must look completely out of his depth because that’s what he feels, before he makes for the door, hastening towards the downstairs bathroom.  


He nearly slips on the stairs, his breath loud in his own ears. The bathroom is cool and silent, and he switches on the light and heads towards the sink, leaning heavily against it as he tries to calm down, gulping in much needed air, breathing in and out and in and out, until his heart rate slows down.  


Arthur startles again when the door to the bathroom opens and shuts quietly behind him. When he spins around it’s Merlin, who has followed him and now turns the lock with an audible click.  
“Plan to finish without me?” he says, and it was probably meant to sound teasing, but his voice is hoarse and it almost sounds like a threat.  


“Merlin, fuck, what … what did you think you were doing?” Arthur stammers out, his voice high and a little bit too loud in the small, tiled room.  


Merlin squints his eyes like he’s being deliberately funny, then says, “I dunno. Bringing you off, I thought.”  


Arthur huffs out a breath, trying to clear his head, preparing himself to voice the thoughts swirling around in his lust-addled, fuzzy brain, when Merlin takes a step forward and crowds him up against the sink.  


“I’d like to finish what I started,” Merlin murmurs, his words a flutter of hot air against Arthur’s ear. His hands are on Arthur’s waist, and he tugs him to face the mirror again, pressing up against his back. “This is so much better, though. I mean…” he trails his fingers over Arthur’s parted lips, while his other hand reaches down and wraps around Arthur’s cock again, “... fucking look at you.”  


Swallowing, Arthur stares at his reflection, trying not to flinch when Merlin’s fingers start stroking him again. His counterpart in the mirror looks startled and soft-eyed, face flushed, hair sticking up weirdly. Merlin has hooked his chin over his shoulder, his eyes very blue as they roam Arthur’s face.  


“Mhmm, yes,” Merlin whispers breathily, pushing his fingers between Arthur’s parted lips, “that’s… so much fucking better.”  


Silently, Arthur agrees. Merlin’s fingers taste salty with a hint of fake butter and he’s surprised at the groan that spills from his lips when they press against his tongue, filthily roaming his mouth. Against his arse he can feel the hardness of Merlin’s dick riding between his cheeks, immediate and hot and so close through the thin fabric of Merlin’s pajamas. He thinks of Merlin’s fingers there, of the press and tease while he brings him off, and his mind supplies him with an image of Merlin pulling both their pants down and pressing his dick against him, into him. They haven’t done that, but right now, he wants it, wants it so much that he has half a mind of demanding it, regardless of how this is just a quick bathroom fuck and it would probably hurt like hell.  


His fantasy isn’t bothered though, in his fantasy, he can go there, and he presses back against Merlin, who moans and abandons his mouth to grip his hip. He imagines Merlin pushing into him, slowly, steadily and raw, and how it would feel to be filled like this, how Merlin would probably try to go slow at first, but soon would just thrust forward. Arthur throws his head back and moans, involuntarily widening his stance.  


“Are you thinking of being fucked like this?” Merlin says shakily, as if he’s reading his mind, but then maybe, his body’s action speaks louder than words.  


"No,” Arthur lies, moans, and his breath hitches when Merlin grinds against him.  


“Because I think of fucking you like this,” Merlin says relentlessly, his voice hoarse and low and breathless.  


He twists his hand harshly on Arthur’s cock and presses him up against the sink, the cold porcelain a shock to Arthur’s heated skin, and Arthur grunts and comes, body shuddering through a spectacular orgasm that nearly threatens to take his knees out from under him. Merlin holds him through it, surprisingly strong as he steadies him.  


Merlin makes soft, encouraging sounds against his ear, words of praise that Arthur barely registers, before he tugs his hand back and reaches for the faucet, quickly rinsing off his hand and the part of the sink Arthur spilled his come over. Arthur just breathes, then allows Merlin to pull him around.  


Merlin’s face is intense and hungry, and he takes a step back and reaches for Arthur’s hair, threading his wet fingers into the strands before applying firm pressure. He doesn’t need to say anything. With a sigh, Arthur drops to his knees on the cold tiles and reaches for Merlin’s pajamas, tucking them down. He exhales softly, watches as Merlin gives himself a strong tug with his free hand before leading his cock to Arthur’s lips. With a groan, Arthur takes him in, the weight of Merlin’s dick on his tongue, his taste, so familiar by now.  


Above him, Merlin hisses, his eyes dropping shut and Arthur looks up, struck with how beautiful he is. He pushes one of his hands up against Merlin’s stomach, rucking up Merlin’s ugly grey t-shirt, his fingers sliding over soft skin and hard muscle. He lets Merlin start a rhythm, knowing Merlin is close from how intense his taste is already. He feels like he has gotten quite good at this, at pleasuring Merlin with his mouth, and he can anticipate when Merlin can’t hold back anymore and slackens his jaw to take him deeper.  


“Fuck,” Merlin whines and starts to roll his hips, the fingers in Arthur’s hair surprisingly gentle as they stroke him. He’s panting now and quite vocal, and Arthur loves when Merlin loses his mind, says things like, “Fuck yes” and “Please” and encouraging, dirty instructions of how he wants Arthur to suck his cock. He steadies himself with a hand on Merlin’s arse, feeling his glutes move with Merlin’s thrusts.  


It doesn’t take long and Merlin comes hard and Arthur swallows what he can before pulling away, coughing.  


“Shit,” Merlin laughs above him and pulls him to his feet. “Shit,” he says again, wiping at Arthur’s mouth and cleaning him up, looking almost embarrassed. Then he leans forward, pressing his mouth to Arthur’s impulsively, kissing him deeply and sliding his tongue into his mouth.  


“Oh, you taste like me,” he moans as he draws back, sounding almost surprised, even though he must have anticipated it. “That’s so hot,” he adds, licking his lips.  


Arthur looks away from Merlin’s mouth, suddenly feeling awkward. He peels himself off the sink and clears his throat as he steps around Merlin, letting Merlin’s hands slip from his body.  


“I’m going upstairs,” he announces, then clarifies, “to bed. I’m… just tired now.” He’s terrified by his own abandoned reaction, by how desperate he feels, by how much he wants to kiss Merlin and hold him close and say stupid, silly things. He tells himself it’s the hormones speaking, the rush of orgasm, the late hour, the intimacy they just shared.  


He doesn’t look at Merlin as he opens the door and slinks out, quickly pounding up the stairs. He half expects Merlin to follow, but when he turns around on the second flight of stairs, he sees Merlin wandering back into the living room to where Iron Man is still playing on the telly.  


Arthur feels both relieved and sorry. He cleans his teeth half-heartedly, all the while staring at himself in the mirror, feeling young and stupid and weird and so confused. He crawls into bed, cataloguing the way his body is still drumming with ebbing arousal. He should be sated, but he isn’t. For a moment he wonders if he should jerk off again, maybe to some of the porn vids he has bookmarked on his computer. Maybe he finds something with someone in it who decidedly doesn’t look anything like Merlin. Someone blond and buff, or dark-skinned and muscular.  
Even while he thinks it, he starts to relax and grow sleepy, so he puts it off for another time, curls up on his side and slips into sleep.  


Training has left Arthur tired but satisfied. Their coach, Mr. Ferell, had led them through a succession of ever increasingly difficult drills, from defence moves to rucking technique and last but not least through passing and handling drills. To top it off, he had made sure they had endured a dense plyometric workout with frog jumps, burpees, plyo push ups and pistol squats. When they are finally allowed to leave the pitch, Arthur feels every muscle in his body tremble.  


There’s more grumbling and moaning than usual as the players trail into the locker rooms, telling each other about the various aches in their bodies. All Arthur wants is a quick shower and then go home for Thursday dinner. He hopes there’ll be meat, because he craves a steak, preferably bloody and while he doesn’t mind eating veggies, he wouldn’t want to go without it. He opens his locker and tugs his sweaty shirt over his head, tossing it inside, before reaching for his shower gel and a towel.  


“That was the meanest training in a long time. Wonder why Ferell is so rough with us. Must have had a bad day,” Leon complains, banging open the locker next to Arthur.  


“I’ll probably feel it for the rest of the weekend,” Arthur agrees. He has a feeling his thighs won’t be too happy with all the squats and lunges Ferell made them do.  


“Elena will be delighted - she’ll beat me running this weekend for sure.” Leon sighs, toeing off his shoes and stepping out of his shorts.  


“Your girlfriend is a cruel woman,” Arthur laughs and threads a hand through his sweaty hair, wiping it away from where it sticks to his forehead. He waits for Leon to pick up his toiletries, then slings his towel around his waist and heads for the shower.  


“What are you going to do for the weekend?” Leon asks as they find two empty shower heads next to each other.  


Arthur fights with the faucet, then jumps back as an icy jet hits him from above. “Fuck, that’s cold,” he complains, before attempting to adjust the temperature by cranking on the faucet.  


Next to him, Leon laughs and ducks under the spray, wetting his hair and reaching for his soap.  


It’s only when the water has turned half-way pleasant for Arthur to step underneath the spray as well, that he remembers Leon’s question. “No big plans yet. But… uhm… actually,” he turns around and wipes water from his face as he reaches for the shower gel he placed in the little tray in the wall, “I got some plans for the hols. I wanted to ask you a favour.”  


“A favour?” Leon asks, briefly ducking his head underneath the spray and washing foam from his curls.  


“Me and Merlin want to go hiking during Half Term. I wanted to borrow your car for the trip.”  


Leon looks thoughtful for a moment. “You and Merlin, huh?”  


When Arthur turns his head to look at his friend, Leon is glancing at him with such a strange expression, that Arthur blushes and ducks his head. “You don’t have to,” he hastily adds. “It’s fine if you don’t want to lend me your car.”  


Leon shakes his head, then reaches for his towel and shuts the shower off. “No, no,” he says, “you can have my car. It’s no problem. Just don’t drive it into a ditch, or something.”  


“Your car is so shitty, it wouldn’t make any difference,” Arthur shoots back, enjoying Leon’s booming laugh. He finishes rinsing himself off and reaches for his towel as well, rubbing himself down quickly, before trailing after Leon back towards the lockers.  


“I’ll have you know,” Leon says teasingly as he opens his locker and pulls out his duffle bag, “it’s the finest and most loyal car you’ll find in Britain.”  


“It’s not a fucking horse.” Arthur snorts and rolls his eyes at his friend.  


For a while, they are busy getting dressed. Around them, the locker room empties as everyone hastens to pack up and go home.  


“Arthur?” Leon suddenly asks, and he sounds hesitant and very un-Leon like.  


Arthur looks up from tying up his trainers and finds Leon looking at him with that same strange look from before.  


“Be careful.”  


“What do you mean?” Arthur asks, although he has an inkling, and his voice is shaky with the realisation.  


“I don’t want you to get hurt.”  


Arthur exhales a sigh, wants to say again, “I don’t know what you mean,” but he’s so sick of lying and Leon sounds so geniously worried for him, that he can’t bring him to voice it.  


“Is it that obvious?” he asks instead, voice low, because there are still other people around, dropping his foot back onto the ground and turns towards Leon.  


Leon looks sympathetic, but he nods, his damp curls bouncing around his face. He slowly sinks down on the bench next to Arthur, clearing his throat before he answers. “I mean, you usually don’t talk much about other people, but you’ve been talking about him nonstop. Granted, most of it is complaining and insults, but… “ he trails off, shrugs, then adds more softly, “... when I saw you two together. There’s just something about you two.”  


Flushing, Arthur wipes a hand over his face.  


“Also, you have a really interesting set of bruises on your hip and unless you lost a fight with a hoover-”  


“Fuck,” Arthur groans, mortified, but Leon is laughing and claps a hand on his shoulder.  


“Hey,” he says, “I’m happy for you. Well, kind of,” he amends.  


“It’s a bit sick, I guess,” Arthur whispers, pulling his knees up and curling in on himself. He wraps his arms around his knees, pressing his burning face against his kneecaps.  


Next to him, Leon shrugs and jostles his shoulder. “Nah. You’re not related. It’s just… complicated.”  


Arthur buries his head in his hands and heaves a sigh. “Complicated is about right.”  


Leon pats his shoulder again. “So? Are you like… together?”  


Arthur can’t hold in the derisive laugh spilling from his lips. “No. It’s not like that.”  


Leon makes a humming noise of understanding. “You can have the car.”  


“Thank you,” Arthur murmurs softly, then looks up to see Leon has gotten up from the bench.  


“I’m glad you’re finally being honest with yourself,” Leon says. “I just wish you’d be honest with your friends as well.” It isn’t an accusation, exactly, but Arthur feels guilty all the same.  


“I’m sorry,” he says softly, but Leon just shrugs again and reaches out a hand to pull him up.  


“Just so you know,” he says, throwing his arm around Arthur’s shoulder, “if you get hurt, I’m going to make sure he gets hurt, too.”  


He sounds so earnest that Arthur’s lips quirk up in a smile. 


	9. Part 1: 2014 - Chapter 9

“... and gender is like totally becoming irrelevant to a lot of people, I think,” Merlin says, stuffing another crisp into his mouth. “Everyone just tries to tell our generation to fall in line - they tell you what to think about and how to think about it. They are fucking scared if you don’t accept stereotypical ideas, because it confuses the hell out of people. They don’t know what to do with it, or do with you. We should all be pushing boundaries, all the fucking time!” 

Arthur laughs and sends another amused side glance towards Merlin, who’s sitting in the passenger seat of Leon’s Ford Focus, his feet up on the dashboard, a packet of Walker’s vinegar chips in his lap. He’s been arguing gender stereotypes for the last twenty minutes - ever since they passed a huge sexist car ad with a scantily clad woman, and it’s a subject that he clearly has a lot to say on. 

“Society feels safer when girls behave a certain way and boys behave a certain way.”

Arthur hums an agreement. “Yeah, something you can put a label on.. Put it in a neat box, right?” he says, then changes lanes because the car in front of them is driving well below the allowed speed limit. 

“Totally,” Merlin says. “If you start acting outside those lines, that’s when they try to punish you. I mean, I really don’t give a fuck about bleeding gender.”

Arthur overtakes the slow car, before changing back into the lane, then looks sideways at Merlin, who is staring ahead like he’s having some epiphany. 

“The things people expect from you just because you have a dick!” he suddenly says. “Like... carrying heavy stuff all on your own. Why should you have to? Or… hold the door open for other people? Isn’t that just common courtesy?” 

Grinning, Arthur bites his lip. He loves it when Merlin is so animated and outspoken. 

Merlin shakes his head, then absentmindedly reaches inside the crisp packet and takes out another crisp.

“Are you going to eat that all on your own?” Arthur asks teasingly. 

For a moment, Merlin blinks, then laughs, looking slightly guilty. “God, no, can’t let you starve. Imagine if I allow the star rugby player to lose some of his well-muscled pounds,” he mutters, mock horror audible in his tone. 

Snorting, Arthur reaches out with his free hand and swats at Merlin’s side. Merlin grins, then leans over and holds a crisp out for him. 

“What, are you going to feed me?” Arthur questions, glaring at the offering. 

“Shut up and eat your crisps, clotpole,” Merlin mutters and rolls his eyes, pushing the crisp between Arthur’s lips. 

Arthur eats the crisp, then says. “That was actually nice. I could get used to it. I might even get used to your strange insults. What exactly is a clotpole?”

“Well... you,” Merlin smirks, his eyes sparkling, “quite obviously. They even have a picture of you in the dictionary to illustrate it.” 

“Fuck off, Merlin,” Arthur drawls, secretly enjoying the teasing banter enormously. 

Merlin giggles, then holds out another crisp. 

For a while they sit in silence, driving along the M4, a playlist Merlin has especially curated for their roadtrip playing on the stereo. It’s not Merlin’s usual fare, which is a surprise, but a much more accessible combination of rock and punk rock tunes, with the occasional 80s synthie tune thrown in. 

Arthur is enjoying himself, looking forward to spending the next four days with Merlin without feeling guilty for thinking about him the way he does (mostly dirty thoughts) or staring at him (because he can’t get enough of looking at his profile or noting something about him that makes his heart speed up) or wanting to reach out and touch him casually (knowing that you aren’t supposed to put your hand on your step-brothers thigh in front of your family). He’s been anxiously waiting for someone to catch him staring at Merlin and recognising the want in his eyes. He wishes he could stop, but Merlin just makes it so difficult. Everything about him seems pleasing to Arthur’s eyes, even his large ears, bony wrists and how he relishes living in offensively ugly clothing. 

He’s quite aware of what is happening and that his willingness and excitement about going on a road trip with Merlin stems from that unfortunate condition, but he’s not sure he’s able to stop it right now. Things have been getting out of hand, if not from the very first moment they met, then from when he drunkenly allowed Merlin to take him apart with tongue and fingers that second time. The memory never fails to send a shudder through his body. He doesn’t understand how Merlin, who is able to be such a goofball, who makes awful jokes and spouts pseudo-intellectual shit on a regular basis is also the bloke whose voice drops low and seems to understand every dirty fantasy Arthur ever entertained without blinking and who is so unembarrassed to speak his mind. 

He can barely remember how it was without Merlin in his life. There’s a clean cut, a Before Merlin and an After Merlin, and he has become such a huge part of Arthur’s everyday thoughts that it’s terrifying. It’s been only four months, and they’ve been fooling around for the last couple of weeks of it. They never talk about it and Arthur doesn’t question if Merlin is seeing anyone. He feels it isn’t his place to ask. They’ve struck a sort of silent agreement and Arthur is hard pressed to keep his side of the bargain. 

Merlin has started talking again, has been for the last minute or so, but Arthur only now zones in on his words, shaking off his own thoughts to listen to what Merlin is saying. 

“... masculinity is fucking toxic, anyway. And it’s so fucking toxic in the gay community, too! I mean, all these older guys, they are like…” Merlin adopts a deeper voice, “You a top or a bottom? You want to get fucked?” He sneers aloud in his own voice, crunching another crisp between his teeth. “That’s bullshit, who fucking cares? You have to be either a tough gay man who tops or a queeny twink who gets on his knees. And it’s like they want you to fulfill these roles. You can’t wear make-up and fuck men up the arse!”

When Arthur fails to produce a sufficient answer in time, Merlin turns to him and tosses a crisp at his head. 

“Are you listening?” he asks, sounding affronted. 

“How could I not,” Arthur says mockingly, trying to deflect Merlin’s annoyance, “you’ve been talking about sex. I always listen when you talk about sex.”

When Merlin just glares and tosses another crisp at him, Arthur laughs. “But I agree!” he says hastily, then picks up the crisp that landed in his lap and pops it into his mouth. 

“It’s good that you’re pretty,” Merlin mutters with mock-annoyance. “You have like… one braincell.” 

“It’s good that your dick is pretty,” Arthur counters and grins, “because you have only one braincell, too, idiot.” 

“Yeah, takes one dumb fuck to know another.” Merlin rolls his eyes and takes his feet down from the dashboard to pick up a bottle of water rolling around on the floor. He unscrews the top and takes a sip.

“You’re pretty great, too, idiot,” Arthur says affectionately and shoves Merlin’s shoulder, laughing when Merlin snorts and spills water over his shirt. 

When Arthur next glances over at him, Merlin is sitting with his legs pulled up, seemingly unable to leave his legs on the floor like any sane person, studying him with a little smile that sings through Arthur’s body, making his stomach flutter and his heart feel stupidly full. 

The feeling holds all during the rest of their drive to Bristol, making him feel content and carefree. 

Bristol, Arthur decides, it’s the best city in all of Great Britain. It might be because he’s a little bit drunk and a little bit bleary-eyed and it’s 6.45 in the morning and they are sitting in a small bakery, drinking coffee and eating breakfast after spending all night out. They’ve only booked a room in a youth hostel, so they aren’t in a rush to return to their accommodation, and Arthur isn’t too concerned that they wasted their money. 

Across the small wooden table, Merlin is eating his third walnut brownie, because it’s the only vegan option, but he’s not complaining. Arthur is quite happy with his full English breakfast; he’s ravenous and the food is hot, greasy and appropriately salty. 

Merlin crams the last piece of brownie between his lips, then washes it down with a huge sip of his soy latte, before he leans back in his chair, sighing happily, giving Arthur a thumbs up. 

Arthur is bone-tired, but his mind still feels wide awake. They had started last evening going to a temporary monthly club, before all but crawling through an assortment of nightclubs and pubs, that seemed to be less strict in determining their age than in London. It’s a student town with a huge student population, after all, and the atmosphere is youthful and relaxed. 2 am. had found them strolling the streets and it would have been a perfect opportunity to turn in, only their conversation had been too engaging and they had had too much fun, so they kept on walking. For a while they had made out on a park bench, but it had been too cold to take it any further, so they had started walking again. 

After breakfast, they finally turn in, falling into their bunk beds at the hostel for a couple of hours, until the sound of everyone else rising and packing their stuff wakes them. Arthur probably shouldn’t find it endearing that Merlin has bags under his eyes and a pillow crease on his cheeks, or that he’s half-asleep standing at the sink in the bathroom brushing his teeth, but he has kind of given up on not finding every damn thing Merlin does adorable. 

They hit a drive-through on their way out of town, Merlin feeding him stale fries and soggy Veggie nuggets. Happily, it’s not too long to their next destination, a small bed & breakfast Merlin booked in advance over the internet just at the fringe of Brecon Beacons National Park. It belongs to a young couple who sublets rooms in their house to hikers. The woman who checks them in is maybe ten years older than they are. 

“So, have you boys been to Wales before?” she asks as she takes down their data for registration. 

Arthur shakes his head, turns to look at Merlin, who is leafing through a brochure display stand, taking out brochures about the Park and the surrounding area. 

“Nah,” Merlin confirms, pocketing a leaflet about prehistoric places nearby. 

“Funny,” the woman says looking between the form Merlin filled out and the one Arthur just finished and handed her, “you’ve put down the same address. Are you brothers?” 

Before Arthur can say a word, Merlin has stepped up and slung an arm around his shoulder. “Boyfriends,” he says. 

“Oh, that’s nice,” she says, giving them a genuine smile. Arthur steels himself for her next question, because they are too young to already live together, especially in Kensington, but she doesn’t ask anything else, handing them the key and giving them directions to their room. “It’s the second door on the right on the second floor.” 

They both shoulder their backpacks and trudge up the creaky, narrow wooden stairs. The room is small but homey with an old wooden floor, a small double window and old-fashioned furniture. It smells of laundry detergent and wood polish. Merlin tosses his backpack to the floor carelessly and slumps down on the bed face-first, arms and legs spread out on the flowery comforter. 

With a huff, Arthur sets down his own backpack, carefully stepping over the one Merlin so carelessly abandoned on the floor, and lies down on the bed next to Merlin, feeling the lack of sleep catch up with him. He arranges his limbs so they fit into the space Merlin left vacant, listening to Merlin snuffle sleepily into the bedspread. 

“Why did you say that?” he finally asks, geniously curious. 

“Does it embarrass you?” Merlin counters, his voice muffled by the fabric of the throw pillows. 

Arthur shrugs. He doesn’t know why it bothers him that Merlin called him his boyfriend, but it does. 

Merlin twists on the bed and lazily glances at him, his eyes twinkling with mischief. 

“I figured that way she won’t be scandalised if she heard you moan my name.” Merlin reaches out to slide a hand along Arthur’s side, the tips of his fingers tickling and teasing. 

“You mean, if you shout my name,” Arthur counters, a bit annoyed by the smugness he detects in Merlin’s voice. 

Snorting, Merlin slides his hand underneath Arthur’s shirt, trailing his fingers up over his chest. “It’s not a contest, Arthur,” he says sleepily. When Arthur doesn’t say anything in return, he closes his eyes, turning his face into Arthur’s side with a yawn. 

Arthur falls asleep with Merlin tucked into his side, hand resting over his heart and only wakes hours later to the sound of rain drumming against the glass of the double window. 

“Fuck,” he says, fishing his phone out of his pocket and looking at the time. It’s only 4 p.m., but outside it’s almost completely dark. Rain is pouring down, hitting the window pane in big dollops. It must have been the noise that woke him. Next to him, Merlin stirs, groaning a bit, looking around himself disoriented. 

“So much for hiking,” Merlin says, his voice hoarse from sleep, not sounding very heartbroken. 

“It’s going to be better tomorrow.” 

Merlin removes his hand from where it’s still nestled underneath Arthur’s shirt and stretches his arms over his head, his body a long, taut line, pale stomach peeking out between the waistband of his trousers and the hem of his jumper. Arthur watches as he gets up and moves to the small bathroom. 

When Merlin returns, he toes off his trainers, leaving them on the carpet just as haphazardly as his backpack earlier. He doesn’t stop with his shoes, though, but reaches behind himself and pulls his jumper over his head together with his shirt, emerging with tousled hair. 

Biting his lip, Arthur watches him approach and crawl onto the bed on all fours, eyes glowing with purpose. 

“What a great excuse to stay in bed,” is all Merlin says, before he dips his head and pushes up Arthur’s shirt, mouthing kisses up the sides of Arthur’s ribs. 

“You’re a lazy sod,” Arthur pants, his body reacting instantly to Merlin’s blatant suggestions. 

Merlin hums against Arthur’s skin, nosing along Arthur’s clavicle. “Seriously? That’s what you’re complaining about? I’m willing to put in a lot of work to make you come.” 

“‘M not complaining,” Arthur moans as Merlin’s mouth moves lower again, the long fingers seem to know exactly where they are needed. 

“Good, I should hope not,” Merlin mutters before taking Arthur into his mouth, robbing Arthur of any words he might have wanted to say. 

It’s the fourth day of their trip and despite Merlin’s ongoing protests, they’ve been successfully hiking for the last three days, exploring Wales’ national parks. They are walking the Gwydir Forest Park today and Merlin has decided they will visit as many prehistoric sites as possible. He has made it his mission to snap pictures of all of them, posting pictures on Instagram for his friends.Gladly, there are many and they are very close to each other. Merlin is particularly fascinated by the Stone Circles, even as he claims that the many Neolithic Burial chambers they come across give him the creeps.The weather lends great atmosphere to his pictures - it’s been overcast all week long, but so far they were lucky and it had only rained in the evening. 

When they finally make it to the Druid’s Circle, the last stop on their itinerary before returning to their B&B in Mallwyd, where they’ve been staying, Arthur agrees that it’s enough for the day. They’ve been exploring since just after breakfast and now it’s almost three p.m. 

He follows as Merlin enters the stone circle through the entrance, walking steadily into its center, before turning around to take in the thirty odd unevenly spaced stones. It’s the fourth circle they’ve found today, but Merlin seems just as excited. He walks the perimeter, letting his hand glide over the rough and moss covered stone surfaces, before plopping down next to one stone that looks like someone carved uneven lines into it. Merlin settles back against it with his back and pats the grass next to him, inviting Arthur to join him. 

“You’ve become quite a fan of hiking,” Arthur teases him as he stretches out his legs, looking across the stone circle. 

“I’m a fan of mythical places,” Merlin corrects him and reaches into his backpack to take out their lunch, a couple of pasties they bought at a bakery earlier today. Merlin briefly unwraps the paper and looks inside, before handing Arthur one of them. 

“They are interesting, yes,” Arthur agrees, although for him, the real highlights have been the spectacular views and the beautiful autumn countryside. 

Merlin snorts at his lack of enthusiasm and bites into his vegan pasty with relish. “Fuck, that’s spicy,” he moans after swallowing his bite down, then frantically looks through his backpack for his bottle of water. 

Laughing, Arthur takes the pasty from his hand, careful so it doesn’t drop out of his hands and into the grass and takes a bite. The taste of lentils and curry explodes on his tongue. “Mhmmm, but good,” he attests, laughing at the way Merlin is gulping down water. 

“Hey, eat your own!” Merlin complains, taking it out of Arthur’s hands. A bit of the filling drops down onto his jeans and he carelessly wipes it away, adding yellow curry stains to the grass stains on his knees. Arthur looks at the grass stains and remembers Merlin falling at least three times on their way up the hill. Sometimes he forgets how clumsy Merlin is, only to see him flail about so spectacularly in certain situations that it’s a wonder he’s still alive. 

“I don’t think Druids actually built this thing,” Merlin muses, continuing to eat his snack, washing it down with little sips of water. 

“Too old,” Arthur agrees. “But maybe they came here, just like we are coming here now. Maybe they performed some magical rituals.” 

“We could perform a magical ritual,” Merlin suggests, his voice muffled as he chews. 

Laughing, Arthur shakes his head. “You don’t know any magic, do you?” 

Merlin lowers the pasty and blinks at Arthur. “But Arthur,” he says mock-earnestly, “ _I am_ magic.” 

Quirking his lips, Arthur reaches out, pulling Merlin’s left hand into his lap. He pushes up the sleeves of Merlin’s washed-out parka, brushing aside the woolen cardigan underneath until he can trail his fingers over the three words tattooed on the inside of his wrist. 

“No, seriously, in another life, I was probably a wizard. A warlock,” Merlin corrects himself, shivering a bit when Arthur strokes his wrist. The skin there is soft and warm and feels good under his fingertips. 

“Yer a wizard, Merlin,” Arthur says in his best Hagrid-impersonation, Scottish accent and all. 

“Ugh, you clotpole,” Merlin groans and gives him an unimpressed glare. 

“What does it mean? I always meant to ask you,” Arthur asks, taking another bite out of his pasty, before putting it down, placing it on his backpack. He’d rather spend his time running his fingers over Merlin’s skin. 

Merlin looks down to where Arthur’s fingertips are drawing circles around the ink. As his hair falls into his eyes, wild and unkempt and tousled by the wind, Arthur glances at the crown of his head and is overcome with a terrifying surge of affection. He wants to lean forward and press his face into Merlin’s hair and breathe him in and it’s just the sudden and frightening intensity of the impulse that keeps him from doing so. 

“When I was in primary school, the other pupils used to tease me for being weird. Like… not-having-a-father weird, for having to stay after hours in daycare. They made fun of my ears and my hand me down clothes. You know, that kind of stuff.” He looks up, biting his lip ring for a moment, before releasing it with a sigh. 

“My mum took me aside one day and told me that I was special. Mums probably say stuff like that all the time, but anyway, she was like, “you’re very, very special, you’re so special, you’re practically magical.” And she told me this story of how she noticed she was pregnant with me after my father left her and everyone told her to get rid of me, because she was only 20 and not yet finished with school. And she had this appointment at the clinic for an abortion, but things went wrong that day - she couldn’t find her identity card, then she missed the train, she got held up by a car accident and when she finally arrived at the clinic, pro-life-protestors had attacked a young girl coming out of the clinic and all appointments for this day were rescheduled. She decided then and there that I desperately wanted to be born, so she kept me, despite having to raise me on her own.” 

Arthur stills the movement of his fingers, but keeps his fingers resting on Merlin’s pulse point, enjoying the twitch of his heartbeat underneath his thumb. “Your mother is really brave.” 

“She is,” Merlin confirms, a sigh gusting out of him. He draws his arm back and lifts his pasty to take another bite. “So, see,” he concludes, “I am magic.” 

With a fond roll of his eyes, Arthur picks up his pasty too and resumes eating. “Okay, you’re a warlock, then, Merlin.” 

Merlin nods, looking ahead at the stone circle. “Yes. The greatest sorcerer who ever lived.” 

“Tall order,” Arthur quips, enjoying the mock-indignation on Merlin’s face. “I can totally picture you with long white hair and a beard and a pointy head. It’s a good signature look.” 

“Oh please,” Merlin scoffs, “I’m not Gandalf. I’m a young warlock. Young and sexy.” He offers Arthur one of his most sultry looks, making him laugh. 

“If you’re the greatest sorcerer who ever lived, who was I in a prior life?” he asks. 

“The moron I had to protect, obviously.” 

“Ohhh… I’m the damsel in distress, then?”

“You’d be the idiot in distress,” Merlin corrects him, swallowing down the last bite of his pasty before wiping his greasy fingers on his jeans. 

“That’s harsh,” Arthur complains, kicking his elbow into Merlin’s side in retaliation. 

“Hardly. If you knew what I had to put up with with you. But then, you’re also… a knight. And a king.”

“A king?” Arthur asks, raising his eyebrows in question. “How did I go from moron to king in your story, in such a brief span of time?” 

“Don’t you worry, you’re both, of course,” Merlin says, grinning like a loon. 

“Of course,” Arthur scoffs, cramming the last bite into his mouth. 

“Obviously, as I’m the greatest sorcerer, I need a king for a sidekick on my adventures.”

“Are you sure it isn’t supposed to be the other way around?”

“No.” Merlin shakes his head, pressing his lips together like there is no other option. “If there was a tv-show about it, it’d be called ‘Merlin,’ not ‘Arthur.’”

“Great. I’m Arthur, the moronic King, sidekick to Merlin, the clumsy wizard.” 

“The Great Warlock,” Merlin corrects. “But don’t be too sad. I mean, you’re an idiot, but you’re a hot idiot. In chainmail. Good with horses, too. A bit arrogant. Terrible with feelings, nay, emotionally constipated. But hot. Dumb as a door nail, though.”

“I fear we wouldn’t get off to a good start under this premise,” Arthur says woefully. 

Merlin pats his arm. “Ahhh, but you can’t resist my charms. And you need me. I’m the brains of the operation, so to speak.” 

“If I'm king, do I at least get to order your insufferable arse around?” 

Merlin looks thoughtful for a moment. “Well… you can boss me around in the bedroom, I guess.” 

“That’s a very homoerotic way of looking at it,” Arthur comments dryly, enjoying the banter more than he cares to admit. 

“Yeah, well, I told you you were bloody hot, didn’t I?” Merlin scrambles to his feet and runs into the middle of the circle, dramatically flinging out his hands and raising them to the heavens. 

“Also,...” he starts, then raises his voice in volume and roars towards the overcast sky, “I’m the last dragonlord! I command all the dragons!” 

In that very moment, the sky opens up and it starts to pour. 

“Your dragons are pretty pissed!” Arthur yells back, laughing himself silly when Merlin shrieks in outrage, before galloping over the meadow back towards where Arthur is hastily shoving their stuff back into their backpacks. 

“Curse you, silly dragons!” Merlin calls, shaking his fist against the sky, “curse you for a thousand years!” 

Arthur pushes Merlin’s backpack against his chest, then reaches for Merlin’s hand, pulling him along. He’s pretty sure there won’t be a dry bit on his body when they finally reach their accommodation, but he’s willing to try. 

Their room back at the B&B is cozy and warm, and they drip water on the carpet and hardwood floors all the way to the bathroom. Merlin looks like a drowned rat, his hair hanging into his eyes, nose shiny, the clothes hanging from his lanky frame, dragged down by the weight of water. 

Arthur starts stripping out of his soggy clothes at once, laughing at the way Merlin is having difficulty with tearing off his as he flails around in strange contortions that make him look awkward and coltish. Arthur steps out of his jeans and leaves them in a drenched heap on the tiled floor, before reaching for a couple of fresh towels from the rack. He tosses one at Merlin, who still has his hands caught in his soaked shirt, laughing when he clumsily catches it with a glare. 

Outside, he can hear his phone ringing in his backpack. He takes one last look at Merlin, who is now pulling his clingy shirt over his head, giving a spare thought to how even when being a bumbling idiot, there’s something inherently sexy about Merlin, before walking into their bedroom, toweling off his hair. 

It’s Morgana.

“I can’t stand it anymore, Arthur,” she moans. “Uther has taken time off to tend to the backyard. He’s digging around in the garden, Arthur!” she frets, clearly seeing the event as outrageous. “He’s dead set on building Hunith an outdoor area, with a little stone path running to the shed and he’s bought a firepit and a smoker and furniture for the terrace.”

“But it’s almost November,” Arthur replies unnecessarily, blinking as he thinks of the messy green jungle that is their long and narrow backyard. Nobody has stepped a solitary foot into it for years. There’s probably an old swing set hidden underneath the thickets somewhere and dimly, Arthur remembers some stone paved flower beds his mother tended to. He hasn’t sat on the terrace in probably four years, because it’s overgrown with rickety wooden chairs that give you splinters and the yard is full of insects, frolicking in the rambling greenery.

“He’s been ripping out the brambles and he’s cut down the bushes. That old tree stump? He’s going at it with a chainsaw!” 

The image of Uther hacking down greenery is so unlikely that Arthur bursts into laughter. 

“He wants to string up lights and a hammock. He’s been talking about nothing else, and because Hunith has double shifts at the hospital because so many people have taken days off, I’m the only one around. He tried to get me to help him with the bushes! Why doesn’t he just hire someone the way he always does! You have to come back, Arthur, soon. Maybe then he’ll only pester you guys. I hate insects. And mouldy leaves.” 

“I guess ‘Love makes fools of all of us,” he says, listening to Morgana’s soft, annoyed snort on the other end. 

“Just please, come home,” Morgana whimpers. 

“We’ll leave here tomorrow. We’ve planned another night in Liverpool, but then we’re back and I promise, I will get father off your back,” he grins, absently toweling off his wet hair. 

“Next time, you need to take me with you! I won’t stay home alone with those two!” 

Arthur laughs at Morgana’s desperate tone, listening to Merlin’s footsteps on the hardwood floor behind moving around. He’s about to reply, when Merlin steps up to him from behind, pressing his body against his back, hands sliding up Arthur’s sides. He’s naked and he nestles against Arthur’s body as if he’s slotting puzzle pieces together, his mouth brushing against the back of Arthur’s neck. 

Instead of words, a startled gasp escapes him, the towel dropping from his hands. He coughs quickly to cover it up.

“What happened?” Morgana laughs. 

“I …” Arthur says, gritting his teeth, because Merlin is mouthing at his shoulder, the wet strands of his hair tickling against Arthur’s neck. Against the small of his back, there’s the unmistakable presence of Merlin’s dick. 

“I... “ he starts again, then coughs again to mask his sharp intake of breath, “I just choked. On my own spit.” He feels Merlin smother silent laughter into his shoulder. 

“You’re such an idiot, sometimes, Arthur Pendragon,” Morgana says, sounding amusedly annoyed. 

“I gotta go,” Arthur says hastily, “...to drink some water.” He makes another hacking sound, because otherwise he’s going to moan. Merlin’s skin is smooth and heated where it’s pressed up against him. 

“Do that. And tell Merlin I said hi and that I miss him,” she concludes, and Arthur has a brief moment of feeling indignation because she never says she misses him. 

He makes an agreeable sound before hanging up and tossing the phone onto the bed, then turns around in the circle of Merlin’s arms. 

“Are you mad?” he asks. “That was Morgana.” 

Merlin doesn’t say anything at first, just crowds forward and bites his lip as he takes a couple of shuffling steps, pushing Arthur back. 

“You looked so good standing there,” he finally breathes, “I couldn’t help myself.” His hands are still busy on Arthur’s skin, sliding along his arms and his eyes roam Arthur’s face, flitting from his eyes to his mouth and back again. 

His words and actions make Arthur shiver. He can’t remember anyone ever looking at him like Merlin does, with want so clearly visible on their face. It never fails to make him hard.

“You… you can’t do that,” Arthur stammers and means, you can’t touch me like that when I’m talking to our sister, but he’s not quite sure he’s conveying his meaning, because Merlin is tilting his head and pulling him in. 

The kiss is soft and wet at first, just a moist brush of lips that deepens when Merlin surges forward. With a groan, Arthur opens his mouth to Merlin’s tongue and allows Merlin to nudge him back with the press of his body. They take a couple of stumbling steps, before Merlin gives a push, making Arthur land on the bed, spread out over the width of it. 

Arthur watches as Merlin crawls over him on all fours, before lying down on top of him, slotting their mouths together again. Merlin is warm and the contact of skin on skin feels as exciting as ever. Arthur wonders if he’s ever going to be tired of the way they fit together. 

Merlin kisses him like he wants to crawl into Arthur’s skin, like Arthur is the single most important person on the planet. It’s treacherous and probably stupid to feel that cherished by someone who’s only kissing you for fun, but Arthur doesn’t want to think about it, wants to push these thoughts away and stay in the moment, the moment where Merlin is bestowing all his attention on him with a frightening singlemindedness. 

Soon, Merlin starts to mouth a path downwards, from Arthur’s neck to his belly, and it’s a familiar trajectory, something they’ve done so often and it’s not what Arthur wants right now. He reaches down into Merlin’s hair and tugs, stills the journey of Merlin’s descent, feeling breathless and a little scared, but the thought burns through him, reckless and exciting. 

“Merlin,” he says, his voice hoarse. 

Merlin looks up at him with a puzzled frown and sits back on his heels. His face is framed by his black hair, even curlier than usual now it’s damp and his eyes are shockingly blue in his pale face. Before Arthur brings up the nerve to speak, to give voice to his many wants when it comes to Merlin, Merlin speaks. 

“What do you want?” he asks softly, eyeing Arthur carefully. 

Arthur sucks in a breath, feeling a flush creep up his face, suddenly embarrassed, not knowing how to ask. There’s a line they haven’t crossed, haven’t so much as discussed. He’s torn between pushing Merlin back down again and voicing his jumbled, desperate thoughts aloud. 

A slow smirk tugs at the corners of Merlin’s mouth, understanding dawning on his face. “You want my mouth elsewhere?” he asks, his amused eyes glittering with brash intentions. Merlin’s low words have their desired effect and Arthur hisses as he thinks of the deliciously dirty touch of Merlin’s mouth and tongue. His reaction makes Merlin’s grin twitch.

“My fingers?” Merlin suggests, his voice dropping, taking on a husky, filthy tone, playfulness replaced by boldness. “My cock?” 

The suggestion is there, hanging between them, and Arthur’s mouth is dry, excitement drumming through him just as his stomach drops with nerves. He feels sick and turned on at the same time. 

“Merlin,” he says again, astonished at how he sounds almost pained. His hand is still wound into Merlin’s damp curls, and he loosens his fingers and drops it onto the bedspread. His body twitches, eagerness, nerves and all. 

“Okay,” Merlin mutters, “okay.” He sounds slightly overwhelmed, which is funny, because he sounded so sure and filthy just earlier. He scoots back up and kisses him, but when Arthur wants to reach for him, Merlin draws back and hops off the bed, leaving for the bathroom. 

Confused, Arthur watches him leave, struck once again by the long line of his pale back and the perfectly round cheeks of his ass. He pushes up on his elbow, feeling silly and cold now that the heat of Merlin’s body has left him. 

Merlin reappears not half a minute later and he stops by the bed, gazing down at Arthur for a moment, before dropping a couple of small packages on the bedspread next to Arthur’s hip. The sight makes Arthur’s heart rate speed up, the nervousness in the bit of his stomach ratcheting upwards. 

“Do you really think we … need that much?” he stammers as he does a quick headcount of the travel sized lube packets and condom wrappers Merlin deposited on the bedspread. He’s not even a little surprised that Merlin has it at all. He once went through Merlin’s bedside drawers on the search for tissues and the top drawer had been chock-full of lube and condoms. It had made him feel both sick with jealousy and desperately turned on.

Merlin just shrugs, then crawls back up Arthur’s body with his knees pressing Arthur’s thighs apart. Merlin kisses him again, his elbows bracketing Arthur’s face, and his mouth is just as soft and warm as earlier. He’s breathing quickly, though, and his kisses are sloppy and turning more so. His cock is a hard line against Arthur’s stomach and Arthur swears he can feel Merlin’s pulse there, drumming against him.

Arthur loses himself in the feeling of Merlin’s body against him for a while. He’s so caught up in the moment, that he protests when Merlin moves back and sits up on his heels, his chest rising and falling, face and torso flushed, his mouth shiny and plump. Arthur doesn’t know how much of his nervousness is clearly visible in his face and posture, but Merlin sucks his lip ring into his mouth and contemplates him for a moment. 

“I know what I’m doing,” he says, and it’s uttered with Merlin’s typical self-assuredness and all Arthur can do is roll his eyes. “It’s going to be good.” 

“It better,” Arthur mutters, enjoying the look of playful indignation on Merlin’s face. 

“Uhhh… is this a challenge?” Merlin mocks and slides his hands up Arthur’s thighs. “I’m all up for a challenge.”

“You’re so full of yourself,” Arthur quips, but he’s breathing hard because Merlin’s hands have found his cock, fingers dancing over his hardened length and Merlin laughs. 

“You’ll be full of myself,” Merlin corrects him saucily, and seriously, this is the worst pun anyone ever attempted and groaning in annoyance, Arthur reaches behind himself and tosses a pillow at Merlin’s head, mussing his hair in the process.

“Ugh,” he says, “you’re the worst.” Merlin is just grinning with a fluffy tuft of hair rising at an odd angle, completely unabashed. 

“Enough talking,” Merlin mutters and dips his head, licking against the head of Arthur’s cock, a broad, flat swipe of his tongue that makes Arthur hiss and arch his back. 

Worrying his lip, Arthur watches Merlin curl his tongue and trail the point down, his fingers stroking against the groove of Arthur’s hip bones. He mouths at the inside of Arthur’s thigh, before reaching for Arthur’s right leg, gripping his shin and starting to gently push upwards and out, urging Arthur to bend his knee and let his leg fall outwards. His touch is gentle but purposeful and Arthur feels his blood pounding in his ears at the way it makes him feel exposed.

Against his skin, Merlin puffs out a hot, moist breath, before pressing his mouth against his pucker, lips nipping at the tight muscle. A groan escapes from Arthur and he fists a hand into the bedspread, thinking of the first time Merlin did this to him and how it still makes him blush, especially with how in this position Merlin just needs to look up to see the reaction on Arthur’s face. 

Merlin hums and pushes Arthur’s knee up further which causes him to tilt his hips and with a satisfied sound, he starts licking, circling the rim with his pointed tongue, teasing with the tip, until Arthur feels himself relax, unable to keep pushing against Merlin’s mouth. He’s panting now, his stomach heaving. Another point of pressure, Merlin’s fingers slipping through the spit and pressing inward alongside the laps of his tongue.

Arthur makes an embarrassing sound and Merlin moans in answer and slides his finger back, before gently pressing it forward, just a little bit at a time. The intrusion feels strange, but sexy, and nerves are firing up all over Arthur’s body, making his nipples painfully hard and his cock strain. 

Merlin’s mouth and fingers retreat, but just another moment later, they are back with something cool and slick that makes Arthur hiss softly. A wrinkled wrapper is tossed onto the sheet next to him. 

“Cold, I know,” Merlin murmurs, sounding slow and drugged, “but it’ll feel so good in a moment.” He sounds sure and when Arthur looks at him, he’s sat up between his legs, watching him with determined concentration, his eyes flickering over Arthur’s body, returning to his face again and again. 

“Tell me how that feels,” he says, sliding his fingers inside again, a smooth, steady slide aided by lube that makes Arthur’s toes curl. 

Arthur hisses out a garbled, nonsensical response, a truly worrisome groany stutter and it makes Merlin smile in triumph. “Good?” he asks as he starts to move his finger. 

“Yeah,” Arthur breathes, nodding his head, eyes squeezed shut. It feels foreign, the drag of Merlin’s long, slender digit in him. He tried doing it to himself in the shower with the aid of bath gel, but it felt awkward and nothing like this. “More,” he finds himself saying, because it’s only a finger and now that they're doing this, he’s suddenly impatient fo feel more of Merlin. 

Merlin chuckles and smoothes a hand over his flank. “In a moment.” The crinkle of another wrapper and Merlin retreats his finger only to press the tips of two against Arthur’s opening, circling, before pushing inside. 

It makes Arthur hiss and twitch, his body overwhelmed with the intrusion. 

“Shit,” he presses out, his brow furrowing, suddenly wondering how this is going to work without pain when just two of Merlin’s fingers make him tremble and break out in sweat. 

“You’re so hot around my fingers,” Merlin suddenly whispers, like he isn’t used to regularly fucking other guys. “Hot and smooth and tight. You’ll feel so amazing on my cock.” 

Arthur swears as Merlin’s words vibrate through his body. He feels his leg muscles relax, knees falling open, not minding how he must look lying there spread out on the bed, his embarrassment suddenly flushed away by the desire in Merlin’s tone. It scares him a little, because while they’ve been fooling around for weeks now, he has no illusion as to what they are to each other. Only he keeps forgetting sometimes, with the way Merlin moans his name or looks at him or laughs with him. 

Moaning, Merlin leans down and nuzzles his face against Arthur’s stomach, his fingers speeding up, then curling und crooking, making Arthur tremble. The slide feels rough for a while, then Merlin adds more lube and soon his fingers are sliding in and out easily. Arthur’s back is bowing as he pushes into the touch and he yelps when Merlin adds another finger. Against his stomach, his dick is twitching and jumping, leaking precome and smearing his skin with wet. He cries out when Merlin leans in, laps up the fluid and sucks the head of his dick into his mouth, his fingers curling once more and reaching deep, twisting. The sensation of his knuckles scraping against him makes Arthur forget to breathe. He feels full and owned, in a way, with his muscles clenching around Merlin’s fingers tightly. 

Merlin is fucking him with his fingers smoothly now, mouthing at his cock, and Arthur’s hips hitch in search for release. He tries to reach down and push Merlin away, but Merlin just looks at him, his blue eyes like liquid and says, “Let’s take the edge off first.” Merlin twists his wrist and curls his fingers and presses, touching something raw and life-wired to Arthur’s cock. 

Arthur forgets about protesting, grabs Merlin’s hair instead and holds him steady as Merlin takes him apart with fingers and mouth. When Arthur pictured having anal sex, he always figured fingering was a perfunctory preparation, not something that could be the main event. But Merlin is making it one, not at all in a hurry, and Arthur comes clenching around his fingers and gripping the bedspread and Merlin’s hair, crying out. 

He hisses when Merlin swallows around him before pulling off, gently easing his fingers out as well, wiping them on the bedspread. 

Arthur has an arm flung over his face, embarrassment setting in now that he came. His body feels like liquid, his stomach heated, muscles lax and heavy. Merlin kisses his way up Arthur’s body, pausing occasionally to nip a particularly interesting place, his dick brushing stiffly against Arthur’s sweaty thighs and stomach as he leans over him. He reaches out, pulling Arthur’s arm away from his face, and grins. 

“That was pretty good, huh?” he asks, looking smug, but fond. 

“Fuck you,” Arthur mutters, hating how he feels so raw and vulnerable right now. 

“Later. Unless you want to skip to that part right away?” 

Once again, Merlin manages to take Arthur’s breath away. He wants that, thinks of Merlin underneath him, of Merlin squirming on his fingers like Arthur did just now on Merlin’s. But not now. 

“Later,” he agrees hoarsely, and Merlin smiles and kisses him. When Merlin pulls away, his eyes are heavy lidded. He slides back down Arthur’s body and sits up between his thighs, reaching for the packets of lube and condoms. Arthur sits up too, his legs on either side of Merlin and watches as Merlin rips open a condom wrapper, rolling the condom swiftly onto his cock, before tearing a lube packet open with his teeth. 

“Let me,” Arthur whispers and reaches out, coating his fingers and wrapping them around Merlin’s cock. Merlin hisses and squeezes his eyes shut, then fumbles on the bedspread for another packet of lube. 

“More is better,” he says softly and between little gasps as Arthur fists his cock, the sensation of latex underneath his fingers foreign and weird. 

Arthur twists his hand, watching the sensation he elicits echo on Merlin’s face, getting really into it, before Merlin pats his hand away, panting. “Stop.”

He complies, then startles when Merlin’s fingers are back against his entrance, cool and slick and pressing inside. Merlin places his other hand on Arthur’s chest and pushes him back, until Arthur lies back down. The nervousness from before returns, but his body feels loose where Merlin is sinking his fingers into him again and his cock remembers the sensation, interested in the proceedings already. Merlin reaches for his legs and shifts them, then slides up and pulls out his fingers, replacing them with the blunt press of his cock. He shifts carefully, letting Arthur just feel the pressure, and Arthur groans and feels his body flutter and adjust. 

Moaning, Merlin presses forward, and surprisingly enough, Arthur’s body accepts him with just a bit of discomfort. 

“Talk to me,” Merlin hisses, the words bitten out between little pants of breath. “Let me know you’re okay.” 

“I’m…” Arthur exhales, whimpering when Merlin slides deeper, “...I’m … good. Fine. Fuck. You feel…” 

Merlin moans and reaches for Arthur’s cock, wrapping his fingers loosely around the base of it, then slides his hands upward. “Yes?” he prompts, voice hoarse. 

“Good. Fuck, it’s fucking good,” Arthur says, a bit astonished and a lot breathless. “Scary. But good. You feel… I don’t know. … Strange. But good.”

Merlin laughs and it shakes through Arthur and he bites his lips at the sensation. When Merlin presses forward more insistently, the stretch of Arthur’s muscles burns, but it’s not exactly unwelcome and he pushes into it, grunting when Merlin slides deeper. 

When Merlin starts to pull back torturously slowly, Arthur can’t help but whimper, but when Merlin pauses, he shakes his head and whispers, “Come on. I said good. So good,” and soon Merlin is rocking his hips into him. 

“I want to kiss you,” Merlin whispers, as if they have never done this before, and he leans forward and pushes himself over Arthur, changing the angle and placing his elbows to the left and right of Arthur’s face. He’s so close now that Arthur sees how blown his eyes are.

His kiss is deep and filthy and has the same rhythm as his hips thrusting into Arthur below, slow but getting increasingly more forceful. Groaning into Merlin’s mouth, Arthur wraps his hands around Merlin, sliding his hands down his sides until he reaches his buttocks. He grips them with both hands and pulls Merlin into him, enjoying how Merlin is bucking and rolling his hips in answer. His cock is trapped between their bodies, brushing against Merlin’s stomach muscles with every thrust. 

“Shit,” Merlin is panting against his mouth, “shit,... _Arthur_.” 

The way he says his name makes Arthur’s blood sing. He presses his face against Merlin’s shoulders, refusing to think and holds on tighter as Merlin’s movement grows more desperate and jerky. Arthur’s leg is trembling where it’s hitched up against Merlin’s side. 

Merlin shifts back on his knees and hitches Arthur’s legs up even higher, before bending over him and reclaiming his mouth. The way his cock is driving into Arthur now makes that raw spot inside Arthur spark again, and he gasps out sharply, angling his hips so Merlin can hit that spot again. Merlin seems to register what is happening, because he bites Arthur’s lip and moans and grinds down the same way, then starts a sharp rhythm. His fingers curl around Arthur’s cock again, adding to the sensation. 

Arthur hears blood rushing in his ears, feels his arousal like a liquid, heated fiery pit pool in his groin, his cock straining almost painfully. Sweat is making their skin squelch together and the dirty slap of their bodies should be awkward, but it only makes Arthur’s blood run hotter. He’s making noise, a lot of noise, crying out with every thrust of Merlin’s hips, desperate noises, sobs and grunts. He feels crazy and drunk. Against his lips, Merlin is whispering encouragements, spurring him on, saying, “I love to make you come, the way you lose it, Arthur, you’re so fucking beautiful like that. C’mon, c’mon, c’mon… want to feel you come apart…”

His orgasm is almost painful the way it rips through him and he trembles and writhes underneath Merlin, clutching at him and digging his fingers into Merlin’s shoulder blades. It ebbs away in waves to the desperate grind of Merlin’s hips as he shakes into him, sinking his teeth into Arthur’s shoulder. It seems to take Merlin ages to finish coming, and all the while Arthur holds onto him, pressing his face into Merlin’s neck and listens to him curse and moan. 

When Merlin’s done, his whole body relaxes and grows heavy. He lies still for a long while, catching his breath as he pants against the side of Arthur’s neck before he pushes himself up, groaning in disgust at the state of their stomachs. 

It’s weird when Merlin slides from his body and Arthur’s body twitches, making him close his trembling legs. Next to him, Merlin discards the condom by tying a knot into it and tossing it into the waste paper basket before flopping down on the bed, jostling Arthur. 

“So…” Arthur says after a while of them both staring at the ceiling. 

“So…” Merlin answers in that same tone of voice. 

Arthur wants to ask what it is they are doing, what it means or if it means nothing at all, if Merlin is still of the opinion that their attraction is a thing you can fuck out of your system, but it’s Merlin who keeps talking. 

“... we probably should get a shower. And then do it again.” 

“... in the shower?” Arthur asks doubtfully, thinking of the logistics and the small bathroom.

Merlin grins. “That’s a brilliant idea.” He reaches for Arthur’s hand, pulling him up. “Come on - up and at ‘em.” 

“I dunno if that’s how you use the phrase,” Arthur mutters, but allows Merlin to pull him to his feet and towards the bathroom.

It’s their first weekend together all over again. 

At 9.30 the following morning, Arthur stumbles down towards the reception desk bleary-eyed, gets breakfast for the two of them and books the room for another night, while Merlin cancels their booking in Liverpool. They make a mess of the sheets so many times, Arthur worries they might be unsalvageable while outside the overcast sky clears up and gives way to a brilliant autumn day. 

Early evening finds them in a local pub that serves fish and chips and vegan burgers. Merlin is inhaling a giant bean burger with fries doused in half a bottle of vinegar, before ordering another, looking flushed and shiny-eyed, like he’s running a fever. His hair is a mess and there are love bites on his neck where his jumper is loose and worn. Arthur steals little glances while they eat, amused by the single mindedness Merlin displays in demolishing his food. 

After dinner Arthur drives them out of town to Bwlch y Groes. The drive isn’t long, but the road is horrible and Arthur is aching all over, his body twinging whenever he moves his foot to change gears or there is a bump in the tarmac. Merlin is once more orchestrating the music to their night drive, a curated experience of mellow indie pop, fiddling with his phone and queuing up songs. On the top of the mountain pass, Arthur parks the car at the side of the road and they climb out, both bundled up in their parkas. Merlin pulls a beanie over his head and wraps a thick scarf around his neck, before they sit down on the hood of the car, enjoying the warmth the engine is giving off. 

The sky above them is vast; dark and cloudless, but full of stars. Arthur has never before seen so many stars in one place, layered innumerably atop each other. The Milky Way is perfectly visible, a cluster of stars bathed in a strange light that fills the sky diagonally. 

“This is pretty amazing,” Merlin says after a while, voice soft, sounding awed, then settles carefully on the hood of the car, back against the windshield, hands pushed into the pockets of his jeans. 

Arthur sits next to him, hoping the hood of the Ford can hold their weight. He couldn’t possibly explain denting Leon’s car. “It is,” he confirms, gazing upward. The sky looks otherwordly, like something photoshopped. 

Next to him, Merlin’s body feels familiar and warm, an extension of himself. They’ve been sparse with their words all day, but when Arthur closes his eyes his mind is filled with Merlin’s moans and gasps, his whispered words of encouragement and declarations of awe. It rings in his ears, making him warm all over, his face heating up as he remembers how they moved together, again and again. 

“I’m glad we made this trip,” Merlin whispers all of a sudden, and Arthur startles when Merlin’s fingers brush against his. It’s like a match igniting a flame, his body instantly alight. It scares him, but what makes him even more frightened is the way Merlin’s fingers gently tangle with his and don’t let go. 

“I’m glad, too,” he finally chokes out. The touch of Merlin’s fingers is unravelling him. He wants this. Always. 

The realisation hits him like a lightning bolt and makes him pull his hand back and push it into his pockets. Arthur tells himself he’s emotional. He just lost his virginity. He is sex-brained. He hasn’t slept much. His stomach is hurting and so is his ass. He didn’t eat enough. 

He listens to the sound of Merlin’s breath and the soft ticking of the car’s engine cooling down underneath him, trying to calm down and watch the stars. It’s what they came here to do. The area is a dark skies reserve and they were told they couldn’t pass up on stargazing on top of Bwlch y Groes on a dark, cloudless night. 

Inside, he panics, thinks of the soft touch of Merlin’s hand, of Merlin pressing his forehead against his as they fucked a third time this morning, of Merlin’s eyes looking at him like he’s the only person in the world that matters. Arthur’s breath comes faster and he hears his heart beating way too loud. 

It’s the romantic setting, Arthur tells himself. They shouldn’t have come out here. It’s just his mood and this night and this whole unreal day. 

They stay silent until the car hood has cooled and isn’t giving off warmth anymore. It’s getting icy now, the cold creeping in underneath their clothes with the gusty wind, chilling the metal underneath them. 

“We should head back,” Merlin mutters after a while and he pushes himself off the hood, shuddering and hopping around on the spot to get warm again, coins in his pockets jingling. 

Once inside the car, Arthur turns the heating up as far as it goes, blasting warm air as they make their way down the mountain pass. He’s bone tired, but he drives carefully nonetheless, and the road is challenging enough that he isn’t lulled into a sense of false security. Merlin doesn’t put on music this time, but leans his head against the window, closes his eyes and doesn’t speak a single word.

When they return to their room, Arthur is ready to go to sleep right away, even though it’s only ten p.m. They both get ready for bed, but when Merlin slips underneath the sheet next to Arthur, he’s naked and he slides right into Arthur’s arms, pressing up against him. He doesn’t say a word or demand anything, but his legs are twined with Arthur’s and his face is pressed into Arthur’s shoulder. His moist, warm breath wets Arthur’s neck. 

It takes Merlin only minutes to fall asleep, the quality of his breath changing, evening out. Arthur doesn’t sleep right away. He’s so tired, all the muscles in his body exhausted, but the feeling from earlier grips him again as Merlin holds onto him. 

He thinks of going back to London, of sneaking around again and dread grips him. He could pretend for five days that maybe they were more than what they are to each other. Arthur knows this will have to end, that it will inevitably end at some point. There’s going to come a time when they both move on with their lives, when they both want something serious, when they are going to date other people. 

He closes his eyes and listens to Merlin’s breath, feels the comforting heat of his body and pushes down his worries. This is right now. Heartbreak can wait for another day. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This might be a good point in the story to take a break if you're binging - we're halfway through!


	10. Part 1: 2014 - Chapter 10

Immediately after returning from Wales, Arthur has been roped into helping Uther with the backyard, while Merlin catches up on work with his uncle in the chemist shop and goes to band practice. The backyard is coming along nicely, but only because Arthur is doing the heavy work, cleaning out the overgrown bushes, weeding the stone-paved garden beds and trimming hedges. Uther is completely useless when it comes to physical labour and it’s a wonder he gets anything done at all. 

Arthur and Merlin have been back in London for three days when one evening, Uther calls Arthur into his downstairs office by way of Morgana. 

“What did you do now?” Morgana asks, kneading her bottom lip between her teeth as she looks at him questioningly. “Uther looks mightily pissed off.”

Arthur puts down his phone and hops from the window seat in the living room where he has been sitting for the past hour. He’s been secretly watching the street, waiting for Merlin to get home. Merlin’s band practice should have been over for two hours now, but he didn’t come home for dinner and he still isn’t here now. When Arthur ponders this, he immediately suspects Gwaine to be the culprit of Merlin’s lateness, Gwaine with his easy charm and ridiculously lush hair who begs during sex and the thought makes him sick to the stomach and also unreasonably angry. 

“I haven’t done anything,” he protests, wondering what of the million things that could irritate Uther is the one that is making his father angry now. 

“Doesn’t look like it. He has his disappointed face on.” Morgana gives a rather striking impression of their father’s expression and Arthur grimaces. 

“Maybe I cut down that rose hedge too far,” he mutters, because he really hopes it’s something harmless and inconsequential. 

Morgana gives him a pitying look that squashes his small hope, and Arthur brushes past her and quickly descends the stairs. The closer he gets to Uther’s office, the harder his heart is pounding in his chest. 

When he steps inside, his father isn’t seated behind his heavy oak desk, but standing by the window, looking outside at the freshly mowed lawn of their backyard, his hands clasped behind his back. He doesn’t acknowledge Arthur’s entrance right away, even though he must have heard his steps and the door closing behind him, but instead waits, as if to build tension. Arthur identifies that technique as one that is supposed to make him feel guilty and ashamed and it works. 

When Uther finally turns around, his face is pale and drawn, but his brows are twitching, a clear indication that he’s livid beneath his calm facial facade. 

“I just got a phone call,” he says, then allows the words to linger for dramatic effect.

Arthur presses his lips together, recognising immediately what this is: an interrogation with him as the accused. A thousand thoughts run around his head. Maybe Uther found out about his art. Maybe Uther found out about college. Maybe Uther found out about Merlin. Maybe Uther found out about college AND Merlin. His brow is sweating as he asks himself what would be worse, his hands fidgeting at his sides. 

“It was from Peter Henley.” 

The name doesn’t ring a bell at first and Arthur frowns, trying to remember where he might have heard the name before. When it clicks, he feels like someone pulled the rug out from under his feet. This is the moment he has been dreading, the moment he has brought upon himself because he was never brave enough to face Uther and have a talk about his career plans. 

“You know what he told me?” There’s an edge to Uther’s voice, making him sound dangerous and in charge. It’s his “Don’t Mess With Me” voice. 

Arthur shakes his head mutely, knowing he must look like a deer in headlights. 

“That he’s sorry but he can’t give you an advance interview, because it appears -” and here Uther’s levelled voice grows louder and snaps as sharply as a whip, “-they never received an application from you in the first place!” 

Arthur exhales shakily and gulps in another breath. Strangely enough, the dominant emotion he experiences is relief, like the quick slump of adrenaline on the rollercoaster after the drop. He blows out a slow breath, revelling in the feeling for a moment, making a decision.

“It’s true. There is no application,” he says, amazed that his voice comes out strong and clear. Calm washes over him, dissipating his stress, slowing down his racing heart.

“What?” Uther snaps, and his icy blue eyes are blazing, tension making his posture rigid. 

“I said, there’s no application. I didn’t apply for the Law Undergraduate.” 

“You didn’t…” Uther mutters strangely bereft, his voice low. 

“I didn’t,” Arthur confirms, feeling so very light all of a sudden. “I didn’t apply for Law at all.” 

After all this time, being afraid about disappointing Uther, of having to tell him that he doesn’t want to follow in his footsteps, the moment is here and Arthur feels like a very heavy weight has suddenly dropped from his shoulders. He stands a little bit taller and feels his stance relax and his muscles uncoil. 

Across from him, Uther is staring blankly at him. There’s a muscle ticking in his jaw, a clear sign that he’s going to explode in a moment, but Arthur couldn’t care less. He feels free for the very first time in a very long time, free from Uther’s expectations and the limitations he has set for himself. 

“You made me look like a fool!” Uther bursts out, balling his hands at his side. “One of Britain’s top attorneys and he is being lied to by his son! I’m a laughing stock!” 

Wincing, Arthur bites his lips. “I’m sorry,” he mutters. He truly is. He should have said something when the moment arose, but he wasn’t brave enough, and in the process, he made everything worse. 

“Get out of my sight!” 

Arthur recognises the mood Uther’s in and it’s better to not say anything else, but do what his father demands. With one last look at Uther, who has turned back towards the window, his shoulders shaking with fury, Arthur turns and leaves the room, quietly shutting the door behind himself. 

He feels oddly exhausted, but simultaneously giddy when he climbs the stairs. In the living room, Morgana is watching TV, but he doesn’t feel like joining her. He just snatches up his phone which he left on the window seat and retreats to his room to draw. For a while he works on the design of a treehouse with a glass roof and made of all natural material. For the first time in a long time, he doesn’t feel any shame when he pushes the pencil over paper, no compulsion to look over his shoulder and hide his work. He fills page after page in his sketchbook, scribbles down ideas and designs.

The only need he feels is to tell someone, no, not someone, he needs to tell _Merlin_ , that Uther knows and how good Arthur feels about it. He wants to draw Merlin into a hug and feel him smile against his neck, happy for him that the secret is finally out and that Arthur’s free. He wants to show Merlin his newest sketches and listen to what Merlin thinks about it. 

He keeps listening for Merlin’s steps in the hallway, but when he goes to bed at eleven he’s still not home. Arthur leaves the door to the bathroom wide open in invitation, falls asleep to imagining Merlin slipping into his bed and wrapping himself around him. They haven’t had a single moment alone together ever since coming back from Wales. 

He wakes at 1 in the morning to the shower in the bathroom running. While he listens to the water hitting the shower cubicle he ponders getting up and walking into the bathroom to join Merlin in the shower, thinks of getting inside the stall with him and press him up against the cool tiles. But the last couple of days have made him careful and hesitant. He doesn’t know where they stand. He doesn’t know how to replicate the careless and easy way they had been together during their stay in Wales. 

When the shower stops, Arthur waits with bated breath for Merlin to pad into his room, but instead, the faucet is turned on as Merlin brushes his teeth. When Merlin leaves the bathroom he does so for his own room, closing the door quietly behind him. 

It takes Arthur almost an hour to fall back asleep. 

Merlin slides inside him with a long guttural hiss of pure bliss, hands gripping for his hips, fingers digging in as he shoves forward. It makes Arthur’s head spin and his breath leave him in a groan, but it feels amazing, raw and intimate. He’s still amazed at the newness of having sex, stunned by how he’s more than willing to share this with Merlin, of all the unlikely people. He doesn’t have a better way to express the way he wants Merlin, though, as words aren’t nearly enough, and he’s always been rubbish at saying what he means. 

It’s still new enough that he’s surprised whenever it happens, but the last couple of weeks have shown him that above all he trusts that Merlin will make him feel good. In return, Merlin lets him explore his body, apparently on board with whatever suggestion Arthur makes, no matter how bold it seems to Arthur. Merlin will watch him with his dark eyes half-lidded, mouth parted and he will simply nod his encouragement. 

Merlin makes the most incredible noises during sex, Arthur thinks. Every moan, every hiss, every hoarse whine encourages Arthur to try and cause the sound again. 

Against his back, Merlin is all warm skin and heat and he smothers moist kisses against the nape of Arthur’s neck, pressing them between his shoulder blades or biting them into his shoulders. His breath pants out against Arthur’s sweaty skin, making the fine hair rise on Arthur’s back. 

He’s rolling his hips into Arthur’s, all heat and pressure, his strokes measured and deep, allowing Arthur to adjust to the intrusion, but Arthur knows from experience that he won’t be able to keep going like this. 

Merlin draws back and Arthur whimpers in protest, but allows Merlin to paw at his shoulders and turn him around. He’s struck with how beautiful Merlin looks, his hair dishevelled, his face flushed, eyes shiny. There’s a look of dazed wonder on Merlin’s face, like he can’t believe they are in bed together and it’s somewhat flattering. Merlin pushes between his legs and props himself up, reaching down to press against him again, and Arthur watches the way he bites his bottom lip as he sinks back into his body, his eyes falling shut, a frown line appearing between his brows. 

Merlin exhales a shaky, soft breath, then blindly leans forward to press his mouth against Arthur’s, sloppy and uncoordinated. He groans when Arthur kisses back, angles his head and kisses him again, shallowly. 

“C’mon,” Arthur murmurs, pushing his hip up in encouragement and Merlin moans out a small laugh at the movement. 

“Don’t be impatient,” he chides him softly, but his eyes are twinkling and he starts rolling his hips again, the new angle making Arthur shudder and moan and clutch at Merlin’s back. 

With a whimper, Arthur wraps his arms around Merlin’s shoulders and presses upwards and into Merlin’s thrusts. He slides one leg higher, curling it around Merlin’s slim hips, pressing the heel of his foot against Merlin’s arse. 

“Fuck, Arthur,” Merlin moans, hangs his head and thrusts forward, harder this time. 

Arthur shudders and pushes back, his fingers digging into Merlin’s arms as Merlin finally relents to a hard rhythm, rocking them both and Merlin’s narrow bed, too. He cries out when Merlin reaches between them and curls his fingers around his cock, pulling him off with a twist of his wrist, his grip strong and perfect. 

“Shhh, shhh,” Merlin hisses softly, then leans down and smothers Arthur’s sob with his mouth. HIs elbow is sharp where it digs into Arthur’s stomach, and with a grunt, Arthur pushes him aside, then climbs over Merlin’s legs and settles in his lap. He holds Merlin’s gaze when he raises himself onto his heels, steadying Merlin’s cock before taking him in. 

“Oh, fuck. Oh fuck,” Merlin mutters, his eyes wide as he watches him, and Arthur can’t help the triumphant little grin that gets a bit crooked when he settles, because the angle is deep and he feels full and strangely vulnerable. When he moves the pleasure is almost painful, but then it eases, because he can direct the movement to where he wants it, needs it. 

He leans forward, reaches out with shaky hands and brushes his fingers over Merlin’s plush bottom lip, groaning when Merlin darts out his tongue to lick at his thumb. 

“How are you so perfect, you clotpole?” Merlin asks, sliding his fingers up Arthur’s thighs before wrapping his fingers around his cock, starting to stroke him again. 

“Shut...up,” Arthur whispers brokenly, leaning forward so Merlin’s cock scrapes against where he assumes is his prostate, because there’s no other explanation for the way his whole body is sparking with pleasure.

Grinning, Merlin watches him with heated eyes, a grin that falters when Arthur starts snapping his hips and clenching down, riding him in earnest, and it’s Arthur’s turn to grin when it’s Merlin who starts shaking, body bowing as his hips rise to meet him. 

Merlin makes an undignified sound, something that probably ought to be a curse but is just garbled nonsense and the fingers of his free hand dig into Arthur’s thigh. 

“C’mon,” Arthur mutters again and snaps his hips and watches Merlin’s face become desperate and pained as Merlin bites down on his bottom lip, his eyes squeezed tightly shut. Merlin comes with a shout and Arthur grinds down, batting Merlin’s fingers from his cock to replace them with his own, following him moments later. 

With a groan, Arthur sinks forward against Merlin’s chest, uncaring that he might squash him with his heavier frame, his body warm, muscles like liquid. 

“Whoa, okay,” Merlin pants, “that was… “ 

He doesn’t finish the sentence, just gasps for air. His heart is beating wildly underneath Arthur’s ear and Arthur closes his eyes and listens to the crazy drumming until it finally slows down. Above him, Merlin’s breath evens out, but still Arthur stays where he is, not yet wanting to move. He nearly jumps when he feels fingers in his hair, carding through his strands lazily, rubbing behind his ear and scratching against his scalp gently. 

“Did I finally manage to shut you up?” Arthur asks, his words smothered against Merlin’s pectorals. 

“You wish,” Merlin says softly, his fingers still playing with Arthur’s hair. He doesn’t seem to want Arthur to move, either. “That was just… really good. Really. Good.” 

“Yay,” Arthur mutters sleepily, then turns his head to glance up at Merlin. “Better than all that other sex you’ve been having?” He doesn’t know what makes him say it and he wants to take it back the moments the words are out, but Merlin just huffs. 

“Top five, definitely,” he says and he’s still sliding his fingers behind Arthur’s ear, scratching him like one would a cat. “It’s not like I’ve had that much sex, though,” he adds almost as an afterthought. 

“Way to make me feel special,” Arthur snorts. “And you must have had lots of sex.” He thinks of the three times he definitely knows about since Merlin moved in, and that’s a hell of a lot more sex than most of Arthur’s friends ever had. 

“Nah, not really.” 

“Where do you get all that kinky shit from, then?” Arthur asks, because Merlin is being shifty, and he doesn’t quite believe him. 

Merlin snorts, his laughter making his chest shake underneath Arthur. “Porn, mostly. And there was this one bloke - he was a bit older, he knew stuff.”

“How much older?” 

Merlin shrugs. “19. 20? He was in this band I really liked. I guess I started to entertain the idea of joining a band because I wanted to impress him? It was really stupid.” His fingers have stopped moving through Arthur’s hair and are now drawing circles on Arthur’s shoulderblades, like he’s playing connect-the-freckles. 

“So you slept with him instead? Did that impress him?” Arthur’s surprised to notice that he’s jealous, while being angry at the same time that this bloke would take advantage of Merlin. But here’s someone that obviously Merlin felt something for, someone he was clearly besotted with, and Arthur can’t help but bedruge this nameless guy Merlin’s affection.

Merlin’s fingers stop moving over Arthur’s skin. “He helped us get our first gig.” He doesn’t say anything more, obviously done with the topic. 

Arthur exhales softly, waits for Merlin’s roaming fingers to make a return. Instead, Merlin shifts underneath him, the movement making him slip from Arthur’s body. Arthur draws back and they move around to clean themselves up, passing forth and back one of Merlin’s shirts, before settling back on the narrow bed. 

“So, your music, is that something you want to do professionally?” 

Arthur twists onto his side, trying to find a comfortable position, which isn’t easy, because Merlin is still sprawled out on his back, taking up a lot of space. 

At his question, Merlin shrugs. “If it happens, it’s fine, but there’s something I want to do that’s probably more feasible as a profession that puts food on the table.” 

“You want to become a doctor?” Arthur guesses, because it should be obvious with Hunith working as a nurse and his uncle owning a chemist’s shop. 

Merlin laughs and shakes his head, amusement sparkling in his eyes. “But close. Biomedical engineering.” 

“Prosthetics?” Arthur asks, confused, and Merlin nods. 

“Yes, rehabilitation engineering. I’d like to design prosthetics.” 

“That’s so… weirdly specific,” Arthur says, frowning. 

Merlin shifts onto his side to face him and he licks his lips, one hand coming to rest on Arthur’s hip. “When I was younger and Mum had to work a lot of night shifts, we had a neighbour, a retired veteran, who used to look after me. I called him Uncle Richard. He lost his leg in the Gulf War. He had a prosthetic leg, but it wasn’t very good. His insurance didn’t pay for a better one, so he had to make do. He always had sores, couldn’t walk sometimes.”

Merlin shrugs again, like he’s a bit embarrassed telling Arthur about this. His fingers are stroking Arthur’s hips now, touching again, a soothing movement. 

“I kind of got interested in the mechanics of it - it was so fascinating to me. He took me with him to get it refitted. I thought that was the coolest job, helping someone use an artificial limb.”

“What happened to him? Is he still living in Hackney?” 

“Moved away five years ago to live with his sister in Dorchester. By then Mum had deemed me old enough to stay at home alone.”

“And wreak havoc.” 

Merlin rolls his eyes at him, but smiles. He looks beautiful and soft, and Arthur hesitates only for a second before leaning in and pressing a kiss to his mouth. 

“You should be professional about your art, though,” Merlin says when their lips part. 

“You think?” 

Merlin nods, cups Arthur’s face with a warm hand, his thumb stroking his cheekbones. “You love it so much. I can’t imagine you doing anything else.” 

Arthur doesn’t know what to say to that, so he decides to kiss Merlin again. 

“You’re trying to distract me…” Merlin complains against his lips, his words muffled. 

“You really think I should apply to art school?” Arthur asks as he draws back, searching Merlin’s face. 

“I really think so. You’re very good.” 

Arthur’s mouth twitches into a smile at Merlin’s kind words. 

“I’m going to distract you some more now…” he announces and shifts closer, pressing his lips against the corner of Merlin’s mouth. Merlin laughs into the kiss, but doesn’t protest.

Merlin is making it back through the crowd with three bottles of beer and a huge smile plastered on his face. 

“Cheers,” he says as he plunks the bottles down on their small high table at the edge of the dancefloor, making the whole table wobble precariously. 

Gwen quickly snatches the bottles before they topple over, then distributes one to Arthur and presses another one into Merlin’s hand, keeping one for herself. “Clumsy Merlin,” she says affectionately and raises her bottle in a toast. 

“Are we drinking to that?” Arthur asks, delighted when Merlin digs his elbow into his ribs with a glare. 

“Shh, clotpole, you’re not supposed to mock the person who brought you beer!” Merlin says good-naturedly and reaches out to tussle Arthur’s hair. 

Arthur evades Merlin’s roving hands, rolls his eyes and forcefully clinks first his and Gwen’s bottle together, then does the same with Merlin’s. 

“Awww, Merlin, we live for mocking you,” Gwen says cheerfully and takes a sip from her beer, her eyes twinkling in the colour-changing headlights. 

“You are awful friends,” Merlin mutters darkly and Gwen snickers and clinks her bottle with Arthur again like they are old mates.

Arthur smiles and takes a sip from his beer as well, feeling himself gradually relax. He’s not quite sure what he’s doing here, only that Merlin cajoled him into going to the queer club together with Gwen, and his acquiesence might have had something to do with remembering their great night out in Bristol or maybe with the fact that Arthur had been post-coital when asked and therefore not in his right mind, or maybe there was another reason Arthur didn’t want to think about too much. 

At first glance the club is not much different from probably any other club in town. It’s 18 and over and they only got in because Gwen is one of the regular DJs and knows the bouncer, who waved them through after a kiss to Gwen’s cheek and slapping Merlin’s butt, which Arthur took offense against with a glare. Only the people in line were dressed a lot more outrageous than Arthur is used to and he feels plain and a little boring. Gwen wears a slinky black dress and killer red heels, her hair messily piled on top of her head and she looks gorgeous and glamorous and very sexy. Merlin wears black velvet pants that look really good on his arse and a chainmail tank top and so much glitter, that it has distributed all over his naked arms, making it look like his pale skin is sparkling. Arthur really should reconsider his own clothing choices, maybe some that are better suited to going out than his sensible t-shirts and jeans. 

“I see a boy who needs to be on the dancefloor!” Gwen laughs, and she is right: Merlin has been twitching ever since they have entered the club and he’s now drinking deeply from his beer, his whole body moving to the beat coming from the giant speakers close to the dancefloor. Arthur can feel the floor vibrate with it, the little shocks travelling up his legs and resounding in his bones. The music is loud, but not too loud where they are standing.

“I don’t want to go alone,” Merlin all but whines and looks pleadingly at Gwen, but she shakes her head and laughs again. “Not tonight, not in these high heels. Also, whenever we dance someone pushes me away and stakes their claim and it’s really no fun. These guys are aggressive,” she explains with an eye roll at Arthur. 

Swallowing, Arthur attempts a laugh, but it sounds a bit stressed to his own ears. 

“Hey,” Merlin says softly, suddenly much closer and looking at Arthur with the same puppy dog eyes he bestowed onto Gwen earlier, “how about you?” 

“Ehrm,” Arthur starts, briefly picturing himself on the dancefloor with Merlin, their bodies moving together. The thought makes a delicious shiver run through him, shortly followed by a pinch of panic. “No?” he adds, like Merlin just asked him a ridiculous question. Maybe when they were on their holidays that was an option, but not here, not now, not with Gwen watching, not with how Merlin looks so tempting and sexy that Arthur would rather be home with him in one of their beds. He’s not quite sure he could keep his hands off Merlin if they were to dance with each other. He can barely keep them to himself as it is. 

Biting his lip and sucking on his lip ring, Merlin’s stare isn’t really a glare, but it’s close. 

“Seriously, why did I take you?” he asks no one in particular and throws his hands up. He looks disappointed and his mouth twitches like he wants to say something else, but reconsiders at the last moment. “I’m going in.” 

Grinning, Gwen waves at him, not at all perturbed by Merlin’s temper. “Do that. And don’t return until you’ve danced your foul mood off!” 

Merlin sticks out his tongue at the both of them, and with a last look at Arthur mutters, “Watch me.” 

Arthur keeps an eye on Merlin with mixed feelings as he pushes his way onto the dance floor through a throng of people and when he loses sight of him and picks up his beer again, he feels Gwen’s eyes on him. 

“I don’t understand,” she says softly, looking at him with a curious expression, “why did you come?” She’s studying him closely, a tiny frown line between her eyebrows. 

“He’s my mate,” Arthur says, hastily and nervously, before masking his grimace behind taking a sip from his beer. 

“Hmmm,” Gwen huffs in a way that suggests that she isn’t quite satisfied with his answer. “Well, not that good a mate, though. You didn’t go dancing with him.” 

“You didn’t either,” Arthur shoots back. 

At his accusation, Gwen starts to giggle, lowering her head nearly towards the table as she snickers. When she lifts her head again, she’s still smiling. “Touché!” she says and raises her beer in salute. 

Arthur can’t help but react to her smile. She’s gorgeous and bubbly and so present in the moment and her mood is infectious and joyous. He’s glad when she backs off his case about why he came here and instead starts talking about her DJ gigs. He only knew her as Elyan’s older sister, met her a couple of times at the games, but only in passing and now that he gets to know her, he can’t help but fall a little bit in love with her, with the bright, witty and all around nice person she is. She talks about her love of music, of how she met Merlin two years ago (“he was this skinny tall thing with a peaky nose and too sharp cheekbones and you kind of wanted to feed him”) and how they got to be in a band together. 

“Merlin and Mordred are the artistic geniuses in the band. The rest of us just tag along,” she says and he can obviously tell she is selling herself short. “They have a lot in common on the surface, but when you get to know them a little better, they are terribly different. That difference makes for great artistic variety, though.”

Snorting, Arthur finishes his beer, then reaches for the half-empty bottle Merlin left behind, figuring it would only go stale before Merlin returns. The label is peeling and he finds his fingers plucking away the paper, shredding it to bits. “What do they bring to the band, then?” he asks. 

Gwen laughs again and tilts her head as she ponders how to answer that question. “It’s pretty difficult to put into words. You know Merlin, he’s loud-mouthed and bossy.” 

At that, Arthur laughs, because it’s a very apt description. 

“And Mordred is usually soft-spoken, but he has just as sharp a wit as Merlin,” Gwen continues. “They argue about almost everything. Man, the rows they have over song titles. Or chords. I wouldn’t say they are the best of friends - there’s always some friction there. But it makes us better, as a band, that they always question each other and their work.” 

She takes a sip from her beer, her eyes flickering over the moving people on the dancefloor, searching. “But Merlin, he’s the real deal, you know? He writes most of the lyrics and he always comes up with crazy musical ideas. He’s terribly self-conscious about it, though. It might sound silly, but he has like an old soul - like… he’s very tuned in to his feelings. A romantic at heart.” 

Arthur nearly spits out his beer. “You’re kidding, right?” he mutters, following her gaze to where Merlin is jumping around on the dancefloor, hands raised in the air, a huge grin on his face as he bounces to the music. He’s not the best of dancers, skipping around rather uncoordinated - one might say, flailing more than dancing- , but there’s so much joy in his movement that it makes Arthur’s legs twitch in sympathy. Arthur is surprised that he recognises some of the songs, although he never before cared for electronic indie or new rave, but he’s come to know a couple of bands over the last weeks. A Digitalism song fades into a song by the Arctic Monkeys Arthur really likes and it would be the best opportunity of the night to just let go and go out there, but something holds him back.

“No, sorry,” Gwen shakes her head. “He’s just… very boisterous on the outside. He likes to pretend like nothing fazes him. He would never admit he has feelings about anything or anyone.” 

It reminds Arthur of what Hunith said about Merlin, how he shouldn’t be fooled, that Merlin was sensitive and easily hurt. 

“Yeah,” Arthur mutters, “he’s very good at that.” He’s surprised how his words sound, a little bitter and pained. He coughs and takes another sip from his beer to mask his rough voice. He thinks of Merlin’s reasoning about their affair. Of Merlin sidling up to him at the breakfast buffet after the wedding, being cool as a cucumber. Merlin downplaying what they are doing. Merlin touching his hand in front of Alexander the Great. Merlin curling around him on their last night in Wales. 

The music has gotten marginally more aggressive with dark, sexy tunes and people have started to adjust on the dancefloor, grinding against each other. Arthur grits his teeth as he sees someone put their hands on Merlin’s hips and move closer, shouting something into Merlin’s ear. Merlin tosses his head back and laughs in answer, and smiles and doesn’t push the guy away. Arthur’s surprised by how he goes hot and cold at the same time and he looks away quickly, unable to stand watching how someone else gropes his… - he mentally cuts himself off, at a loss for words. His what?, he thinks desperately. His step-sibling? His fuck-buddy? His boyfriend? 

He didn’t realise that the conversation between him and Gwen has petered out and when he does look at her, she’s studying him carefully, worrying her lip between her teeth. 

Arthur attempts to give her a nonplussed look in return, but there must be something in his gaze, because she exhales a sigh. “Oh, wow,” she says and grimaces. Her hand comes to rest on Arthur’s forearm, her fingers cool and moist from the condensation of the bottle, a welcome contrast to his heated skin. 

“Wow,” she repeats, then, “Merlin is such an idiot, isn’t he?” 

Arthur wants to shrug her off, wants to faint incomprehension, but she’s looking at him with her brown eyes gone all soft and he can’t lie to her face, so he doesn’t say anything. 

“Oh my God,” she wails, “what are you waiting for? Go out there! Push that guy away! Stake your claim! Get the boy!” 

Arthur chances a glance at Merlin, grimacing when he sees that he’s still dancing with Grabby-Guy and obviously having the time of his life. He turns back to Gwen and takes another sip from the beer, slowly starting to feel the buzz. 

“The boy doesn’t want to be got,” he says. “And certainly not by me.” 

Gwen huffs out a breath. “That’s because he’s stupid!,” she groans. “You’re gorgeous and nice and funny and …” 

“... his brother.” 

“... well,” Gwen says, frowning, “step-brother. But yeah, there’s that.” 

On the dancefloor, someone else has approached Merlin and is aggressively attempting a dance off with Grabby-Guy. Great, now Merlin is grinding with two blokes, Arthur thinks and rolls his eyes. 

Gwen is silent for a bit, twirling the bottleneck of her beer between her fingers. “So… you like him?” 

Arthur shrugs helplessly. He does. He does like Merlin an awful lot. 

When he next looks over to Merlin, he’s all but sandwiched between the two guys as they move together to the beat. Arthur wants to go over there and possibly throw a punch. He wants to go over there and drag Merlin somewhere where they can be alone. He wants to wash out his eyes with bleach and forget he ever saw it. 

“I’d better leave. This is seriously no fun. Not that I didn’t enjoy talking to you, but…” 

“Oh Arthur,” Gwen say compassionately and Arthur feels embarrassed and all kinds of stupid. “We should definitely hang out again, though,” she adds. “Maybe we should go to the club without Merlin. Or you could come to one of my gigs. Bring Morgana with you.” 

“She’d like that,” Arthur agrees, thinking fondly of how Morgana has been gushing about how cool Gwen is for weeks now. 

They hug and afterwards, Arthur spares a second of thought whether he should tell Merlin he’s leaving, but when he takes a last look over his shoulder, Merlin is obviously too caught up in dancing and Arthur really shouldn’t walk over there or he’d cause a scene. 

Maybe Leon is right - maybe he’s going to get hurt, because to Merlin, it’s all just in good fun and nothing is serious. 

He leaves without saying goodbye, feeling sick to his stomach with jealousy.

When Arthur returns from his morning run the next day, Hunith is making waffles in the kitchen, while Morgana cuts up fruit. Uther has already left for a game of indoor golf with some of his attorney friends. They immediately recruit him for melting chocolate, and when everything is done, they sit down at the kitchen table for breakfast. 

Hunith and Morgana are happily chatting about their plans for the day. Morgana needs new winter boots, because she’s been outgrowing all her shoes and Hunith is taking her shoe shopping. Morgana seems excited about the prospect, more so about Hunith coming with her than getting new things. He watches them as they giggle and tease each other like girlfriends and for the first time in a long time he doesn’t think bitter thoughts about his mother. He realises that he’s genuinely happy for Morgana and that he loves to see her so carefree and cared for. She’s been living with him and Uther for so long with only elderly Annie around for female company. She must be glad to have another woman in the house. 

Halfway through breakfast, Merlin stumbles into the kitchen with bleary eyes, an overlarge, frayed t-shirt hanging off his lithe frame. He fills a cup with coffee after a gruff “Good Morning”, sniffs carefully at the waffles before loading a plate and then sits down across the table from Arthur. He sips his coffee slowly, his eyes boring into Arthur’s over the rim of his mug. 

Arthur scowls back at him and takes him in, cataloguing the way he looks. His face is scrubbed but pillow-creased and his hair is morning-wild and unkempt. With a bit of guilt Arthur realises he’s checking him over for love-bites or anything else incriminating. After all, the last time he saw Merlin, he had someone else’s hands all over him. His stomach squirms and balks at the thought, and he pushes his half-eaten bowl of porridge away and concentrates on his fruit smoothie. 

“We’d better hurry up,” Hunith says to Morgana and gets up to put her empty plate into the dishwasher. “I trust you boys to clean up after us,” she adds with a wink. 

“Will do,” Merlin mutters, sparing a brief side-glance at his mother before glaring once more at Arthur. 

Gladly, both Morgana and Hunith are seemingly unaware of the tension at the table or chalking it up to the early morning, and Arthur is silent while they move around the kitchen to put away their dirty dishes. They make a ruckus out in the hall as they look for coats and keys. When the door falls into the lock, the silence is resounding. 

“Why did you leave last night?” It bursts out of Merlin the moment they are alone, and he sounds accusatory and pissed off. 

“I just wanted to go home,” Arthur says shortly, wondering why Merlin is angry with him, when it should be the other way around. 

“Why? I came back and you were gone.” Merlin’s voice holds a petulant mix of confusion and impatience. He’s put down his fork, staring at Arthur over his half-emptied plate and his whole demeanour reminds Arthur of how they clashed in the beginning, those pointless, testosterone-filled pissy verbal fights where they called each other names. He can feel it in his own reaction, the need to lash out and give Merlin a piece of his mind, but he wants to believe he has since learned to de-escalate, so he swallows down his anger. 

“I guess it wasn’t that much fun as expected,” he mutters soarly, willing Merlin to understand. How is that so very often Merlin can read him like an open book, only not when it’s about his feelings?

“It’s your own fault when you’re being such a spoilsport. You could have gone dancing with me,” Merlin says, wrinkling his nose in confusion and proofing Arthur right. 

“And watch every bloke in the place crawl all over you up close? Right. Because that’s totally my idea of a good Friday night.” The words come out of Arthur basically without his consent and he’s worried about them right away, but he can’t take Merlin’s cranky bewilderment anymore. He wanted to have Merlin come to his own conclusion and not have to spell it out, but obviously, that isn’t happening.

“That bothers you?” Merlin asks and he sounds less angry now and even more baffled. 

Arthur sighs and reaches for his coffee, gripping the mug tightly and gritting his teeth. It all boils down to the thick of it: what they are doing is ill-advised and only leads to misunderstandings and hurt feelings. Leon was right. Leon was right and Arthur is a complete fool for not being able to see this coming. Or rather, for being too ignorant to stop what was happening. He isn’t Merlin and he thinks that maybe everyone gets it wrong about Merlin being a romantic at heart, because there’s no shred of awareness or sensitivity he can detect there, only a boy who doesn’t give a fuck. 

“I don’t think we should do this anymore,” he says flatly. 

“What, go to a club together?” There’s a frown on Merlin’s face, drawing up his eyebrows and creasing his nose, and Arthur rubs his hands over his eyes in frustration, before dropping them back onto the table, knowing he must look exasperated and fairly livid. 

“Are you being deliberately obtuse?” he growls, so fed up with Merlin playing the dumb fool. 

The silence that follows is long and Merlin’s face is going through a rather interesting variety of emotions, all of which stay a mystery to Arthur. 

“Don’t get your panties in a twist,” Merlin says after a while, and his voice sounds strangely thick. “We’re just fooling around.” 

“Is that what you tell yourself so you can sleep at night?” 

Merlin frowns again. Another long silence stretches out between them and Arthur considers getting up and leaving. “I’m not sure I understand what you’re saying,” Merlin finally mutters, looking at Arthur almost defiantly. “What do you want from me?”

“... I dunno what I want,” Arthur says frustrated, in defense. 

Merlin is worrying his bottom lip between his teeth, looking like he’s experiencing a particularly bad stomach ache. “I thought…” he starts, then swallows, “I thought it was clear what this was about.”

“Just a bit of fun?” Arthur asks darkly, knowing Merlin won’t miss the hurt in his voice. He’s past caring now, almost glad that they are having this conversation. It’s tearing him up inside.

More silence as Arthur watches Merlin’s face go through another range of emotions and which ends with Merlin just looking pissy and defensive and something else - scared. “I never pretended it was anything else!” he says forcibly. 

When Arthur doesn’t answer, because how can he convey that there were moments when that didn’t seem clear at all and things might have gotten a bit muddled, Merlin’s voice rises again. “You said yourself it’s insane. On more than one occasion,” he blurts out, accusatory. “I thought we were on the same page.” 

Arthur briefly closes his eyes and when he opens it, Merlin’s face is even paler than usual with bright spots on his cheeks. He looks thrown. 

“I don’t get it, Arthur. What do you want? You want to hold my hand and shit? Tell everyone I’m your boyfriend? Because that’s … that’s…” he’s grasping for words, then hurls out, “ - We’re step-brothers.”

Merlin’s harsh words echo Arthur’s own doubts and they hit him like a blow. 

“You’re an arsehole,” Arthur says, then pushes himself to his feet, gripping his mug off coffee so tightly in his hands he’s afraid it will break apart in his hands. He doesn’t look at Merlin anymore, just wants to get out of here. Let Merlin deal with cleaning up the kitchen on his own. 

Merlin is silent behind him and doesn’t say anything, so Arthur sprints up the stairs to this room. He lies down on his bed, staring at the ceiling and trying to catalogue his feelings. His muscles are so tense, it’s hard to breathe. He waits for Merlin to come to him, maybe apologise, maybe tell him that he didn’t mean it, that he’s sorry, but when he pictures the scene, it just feels wrong. 

Two hours later, he’s sick of the thoughts percolating in his head and tired of listening for Merlin’s footsteps outside his door. He takes out his artwork and spreads the papers out on the floor, looking through them critically, pondering if they are any good, starting to unconsciously shift them into piles depending on how proud he feels about the single artwork. He goes through his sketchbooks and marks his favourite pages with post-it notes. It takes him the better part of the afternoon and when he’s called down for dinner by Annie, he has planned out which ones to scan at the machine at school. 

The next Friday after Arthur’s rugby game, Morgana and Arthur are invited to one of Gwen’s DJ gigs. It’s the first game Uther hasn’t attended in ages and the first game where they don’t go out to dinner after and Arthur is pretty sure that Uther’s absence has been a deliberate act of parental neglect. Additionally, Uther hasn’t said a single word to him for days now. Arthur knows that his father is capable of holding the biggest of grudges, but he’s outdoing himself this time. Thursday dinner was particularly icy and no attempt by Hunith to lighten the mood and engage them in conversation made any difference.

Gwen plays in a line-up of four DJs and she has the first slot of the evening (taking into consideration that she’s the lesser known of the DJs for the night). The music Gwen plays isn’t entirely Arthur’s cup of tea, but like when she’s drumming in Merlin’s band, Gwen brings a great energy to the task and it transfers nicely onto the dancefloor. She has a good feeling for building up momentum and she knows when to slow down and give the audience a break as well. 

Morgana is even more convinced than ever that Gwen is the coolest person alive. There has been a change in Morgana lately, something that happened very subtly, but looking at her now, in the strobing light of the club, the transformation is very apparent. Gone is the wild hair and the gothic make up and Arthur hasn’t seen her in one of her witchy dresses for weeks now. Her hair has been brushed and straightened and flows openly over her shoulders and she wears dark skinny jeans with her new boots and a glittery top. She looks grown-up and sure of herself and her mood swings have drastically lessened. A lot of guys are looking her way appreciatively and their gazes are making Arthur’s skin crawl with protectiveness. 

Arthur is relieved that Merlin isn’t here for once, because he’s been helping out a lot in his uncle’s shop as they are preparing for the upcoming Christmas season. They haven’t exchanged more than a few furtive glances since last weekend. More than once, Arthur has thought of confronting Merlin, but has ultimately shied away from it, thinking it’s Merlin who has been an arse and therefore needs to come to him in search of reconciliation. It just makes Merlin another person who Arthur doesn’t talk to.

For tonight, he’s just glad that he won't need to watch a repeat of the last time they were at a club and possibly observe Merlin dance with other people, because thinking about the last time is still making him sick with jealousy. 

Arthur is pleasantly surprised that Elyan is there as well to support his sister. They haven’t seen much of each other outside of rugby training lately, because Elyan is busy preparing for his second round interview for the Engineering Undergraduate in Oxford. 

Arthur listens a bit enviously as Elyan talks about his future plans, how he’s so sure what he wants to do with his life and how Elyan’s dad supports him by preparing questions for the interview with him. He wishes there was someone in his life who supported him like that and he swallows down the envy and the pain and tries to feel happy for his friend. 

Half-way through Gwen’s set, some more of Gwen’s friends show up, among them Freya and Mordred, who greet Arthur like he’s a long-lost friend. It’s funny, Arthur thinks, how their circle of friends must have overlapped in the past, when they didn’t know each other at all, as if there was always a thread of connection between Arthur and Merlin. 

Elyan starts to talk about university with Freya, basically rehashing everything he has already told Arthur and Arthur stops listening and sips his coke, watching the people on the dancefloor and their reaction to Gwen’s DJ set. 

He nearly startles when Mordred brushes against him as he settles at the wall next to Arthur. 

“It’s good to see you again,” Mordred says, taking a sip from his cup, before letting his blue eyes travel - quite deliberately - up and down Arthur’s frame. It’s very blatant, a clear stake of intentions, but Arthur can’t deny that he kind of likes being looked at like that. It makes him think of his reaction when Merlin danced with the two blokes last weekend and he suddenly wishes Merlin were here to see Mordred flirt with him. 

“Good to see you too,” Arthur agrees and twists to turn his body towards Mordred, signaling he’s willing to enter a conversation. He likes the way Mordred is smiling when he angles his body towards his, small and slow and pleased, his cool blue eyes sparkling.

“Where have you left your sidekick?” Mordred asks, still smiling that slow, pleased smile, but there’s an edge to his voice, and Arthur knows immediately who Mordred is talking about. 

“You mean Merlin?” Arthur replies, snorting. “I’m pretty sure he’d protest being called that. He thinks it’s the other way around.” 

“He would,” Mordred grins, and the way he says it doesn’t sound particularly positive. It bugs Arthur, but he decides to not examine that feeling more than necessary, because Merlin isn’t here, but Mordred is.

“He’s working. I guess.” 

“Good.” Mordred looks satisfied. “So I get uninterrupted time with you.” He says it somewhat drolly and it’s endearing. 

Arthur laughs. “If that’s what you want…” 

Morded’s eyes crinkle at that, and Arthur is once again struck by how blue they are. Mordred is what one would call classically handsome, face like a greek statue, all straight lines and angles, his brown curls perfectly shaped. There’s something both soft and hard about him and it’s very intriguing. 

“The last time we met you said you played rugby. Is that how you know Elyan?” Mordred asks, using his cup to point at Elyan, who is still deep in conversation with Freya, their heads stuck together as Freya listens intently. 

“Yes. We’re on the same team. I didn’t know Gwen well, though. I only recognised her after being at your concert.” 

“I used to play too. Fucked up my back, though. That’s why I started concentrating on music.” Mordred shrugs, like he has accepted that twist of fate and made his peace with it.

“Ouch,” Arthur winces in sympathy. Injuring oneself is the worst fear of every semi-professional rugby player. “What position did you play?”

“Hooker.”

“Figures,” Arthur mutters, because while rugby is a particularly dangerous sport, hookers are particularly prone to all kinds of injuries. 

Mordred laughs at his sympathetic hiss. “Being on stage is less dangerous. Well, unless people throw piss bottles at you,” he says conspiratorially, leaning closer to Arthur like he’s ready to divulge a well-kept secret.

“What?!” Arthur snorts and Mordred giggles, looking pleased by his reaction. 

“They did that!,” Mordred confirms, his grin widening at Arthur’s round-eyed gaze of disbelief. “One of our first gigs. It was a small open air at the park. We were terrible. Will forgot his chords and played the same three chords over and over again and Gwen nearly fell off her drum kit during a drum solo. They booed us and called us fags and a bottle hit Freya in the head. Merlin showed them his bum just to get back at the audience. We were asked to leave the stage after that.”

“No!” Arthur makes and Mordred chortles at his disbelieving reaction. 

“I swear. The whole thing was awful. Freya nearly quit the band after that gig.” 

“That’s horrible,” Arthur says, wincing in sympathy. 

“Glad that doesn’t happen anymore. It made us become better faster, you know? We were so scared of a repeat performance.” 

“I can imagine. Whenever my team gets humiliated on the pitch, it kind of raises our spirits to do better next time.” 

“That old spiel about failure and growth, I guess,” Mordred agrees. 

The conversation keeps flowing easily and Arthur is enjoying himself more than he thought possible. Mordred is both funny and weirdly earnest at times and their talk goes back and forth between silly and deeply thought-provoking. At some point, Gwen returns from the turntables, a bit sweaty but glowing with accomplishment and joins them for a round of drinks and Arthur realises with astonishment that he has been talking to Mordred for the last hour and a half. 

He’s only mildly surprised when Mordred grabs his wrist as Morgana and Arthur are about to leave and leans in close. 

“May I put my number in your phone?” Mordred asks, and he looks at Arthur imploringly. It’s impossible to say no and Arthur finds he doesn’t want to. He feels a little thrill as he hands over his phone to Mordred and watches him punch in his number and saves it in his contacts. 

“Here,” Mordred says softly and hands the phone back to Arthur, brushing their fingers together most likely deliberately. “Just to make it really clear: I’d love to go out with you. On a date. If that’s alright with you. Just give me a call, okay?” 

Biting his lip, Arthur nods, watching that small, pleased smile blossom on Mordred’s face again. 

On the tube, Morgana chats at him about everyone she has met tonight and wasn’t Gwen fabulous and wasn’t Freya the loveliest person Arthur had ever met. Arthur feels overwhelmed with her onslaught of words, so he nods and agrees, because there’s no harm in that and it’s true. He finds himself recalling his conversation with Mordred and he’s surprised to find that he’s giddy about the fact that a cute bloke has chatted him up and wants to go out on a date with him. A date. It sounds so serious and grown-up and it strikes him that this is what people do when they like someone - they go out on dates. 

He fiddles with his phone and looks up Mordred’s number in his contacts, smiling a bit when he sees that Mordred added a smiley-face to his name. His phone peeps with an incoming message and he nearly drops it in surprise. 

_ Magical Idiot: Bored. Come over when you’re back?  _

Arthur stares at Merlin’s message, confused and thrown. The message strikes him as strange after the fight they had last weekend. Is Merlin seriously trying to pretend that nothing has happened? That nothing has changed? Is this a booty call? 

He’s torn between texting something scathing back, like how he had had a great time with Mordred and is too tired now to deal with Merlin’s shit, and agreeing to pay Merlin a visit later. The mere thought of seeing Merlin makes his stomach twist with anticipation. It scares him how much he wants Merlin, despite their fight, and how he grows semi-hard just thinking about Merlin lying in his bed, touching himself while waiting for Arthur to come home.

In the end, he decides to ignore the message and pushes his phone into the pocket of his jacket. Minutes later, his phone vibrates again, but he refuses to look at it, instead turning towards the tube window, watching his own face in the reflection of the glass. 

On Monday, Arthur takes his folder of drawings and a backpack filled with his favourite sketchbooks to school and approaches his History of Art teacher, Mr. Woods, after the course, all the while feeling his heart beat in his chest madly. Mr. Woods is also teaching Fine Arts at Ashbourne, and Arthur is in desperate need of some guidance and direction. Ever since Merlin suggested that his art was good enough for art school and why wasn’t he applying, a seed had been planted in his head. If Merlin thinks he’s good enough and if Hunith gushes over his art, maybe, just maybe, he should try and do something with his passion. 

When Arthur steps up to his desk, Mr. Woods glances up from where he’s looking through a pile of papers on his desk and blinks at him. “How may I help you, Arthur?” he asks, sounding curious. History of Art isn’t a subject for which students usually need to address their teacher after class and Mr. Woods looks surprised at Arthur’s presence in front of his desk.

Arthur clears his throat nervously and lets his backpack slide from his shoulder and rest on Mr. Woods’ desk. “I wanted your opinion on something.” His words come out hoarse and he swallows nervously, resisting the urge to clear this throat again.

“Of course,” Mr. Woods says, looking even more attentive and curious now. He puts the papers he’s been perusing asides and indicates for Arthur to pull up a chair. 

Arthur’s voice is still gruff when he mutters his thank you, and he shuffles around for a chair awkwardly, before reaching inside his backpack to retrieve his portfolio. His fingers shake as he puts it down on the table in front of him. 

“Do you think,” Arthur asks softly, pushing the closed folder across the table towards Mr. Woods, “that these drawings are … any good?... I mean, good enough for an application to art school?” 

Mr. Woods studies Arthur for a long moment, looking surprised, before gently reaching for the folder and opening it. He leafs through the drawings slowly, carefully turning the pages over, giving each and every one ample consideration. Across from him, on his chair, Arthur is dying inside with nerves, his hands sweaty and heated on the fabric of his jeans. He can barely breathe and he suddenly needs to pee and sitting here is the worst kind of torture he has ever experienced in his life. 

When Mr. Woods has looked through every single page with his utmost attention, he glances up at Arthur, a small smile tugging at his lips. His reaction makes Arthur’s heart soar, even before Mr. Woods utters a single word. 

“These are very promising, Arthur,” Mr. Woods says, and it’s like a weight drops from Arthur’s shoulders, relief flooding him.

“Promising enough… for a place at art school?” Arthur asks hesitantly, needing to clarify Mr. Woods opinion.

“I think that if you put in some dedicated work, it’s very well worth a try.” 

“Okay… okay,” Arthur says and he knows he must look stupid, beaming like a loon from a little bit of praise, but he can’t help it. He thinks highly of Mr. Woods and in his estimation, if anyone knows just a little bit about art, it’s his teacher. 

“You will have to prepare a proper portfolio, though, showcasing at least 10 to 15 artworks, ideally with different techniques but a clear and concise concept. There are several art schools with deadlines in December.” Mr. Woods gently closes Arthur’s art folder and pushes it back over the table. “Fine Arts is Monday, Tuesday and Thursday at 2. You are welcome to attend as an extracurricular student for the coming weeks whenever you can manage, so I can tutor you.” 

Arthur gnaws his lip. He’ll be able to make 2 out of 3, if he makes a run for it on Tuesday and Thursday. “That would be amazing,” he breathes. 

“But Arthur,” Mr. Woods says warningly, steepling his fingers in front of him, “ this won’t be a walk in the park. You will really need to be willing to put quite a lot of work into it and there isn’t much time.” 

“I can do this. I will do this. You tell me what is needed and I will do it.” Arthur is amazed by his own conviction that he’s capable of doing this and furthermore by the sudden fervor that has gripped him when he thinks about giving his all for this. The only thing he ever has been passionate about in his life was rugby, but now there’s this thing that has slowly but surely crept up on him and suddenly, everything is so clear and makes so much sense: He wants to be an artist, like his mother. He wants to make art and be creative every day and he wants to be successful, so that he never ever has to settle for something that he doesn’t want to do. 

“Good.” Mr. Woods smiles at him and Arthur beams back, feeling giddy and excited. “I’ll give you homework until Monday next week then. Write down roughly 300-400 words about what your angle is, what you bring to the table, so to speak, the thing that makes your art unique. Then reduce it to a sentence.”

Arthur nods. He can do this. He can probably fill a thousand notebooks about his art. “Thank you, Mr. Woods.” 

He reaches for his folder and pushes it under his arm and waves goodbye, feeling accomplished and almost high. His excitement carries him through the afternoon and he spends several hours at the scanner in the art department, scanning his drawings and sketches from his sketchbook and sending them to his G-Drive, carefully labelling each and every art work. 

All during Tuesday dinner, Arthur feels Merlin’s eyes on him and it makes it difficult to concentrate on his food, which is a terrible shame, because Annie has outdone herself with the vegan Shepherd’s pie she’s been serving. Next to Arthur, Morgana is moaning her way through the second portion, claiming it’s much better than the meat version, crowning Annie the queen of vegan British food. Predictably, their housekeeper is charmed and watches proudly as Morgana slaps more mash onto her plate. 

Arthur pushes his fake meat from one side of the plate to the other, carefully avoiding to look across the table at Merlin. Whenever he does raise his head, Merlin’s staring at him in challenge, as if he’s daring Arthur to say anything. Arthur is relieved when Morgana has finished her third portion and has finally stopped eating, so he can stand up and put his own plate into the dishwasher. 

He excuses himself quickly and takes the stairs, two steps at a time, relieved when he’s finally back in his room. Today he had his first art class with Mr. Woods. It had been highly intimidating walking into that class with everyone looking at him curiously, wondering what he’s doing there. All the other students had been working on different projects already, so Arthur had sat down at an empty table and gotten out his drawing utensils, his pencils, papers and sketchbooks, feeling like a fraud. He had started to doodle almost in self-defense, but had quickly begun to enjoy the process. He hadn’t realised that he had been working for almost an hour with full concentration, when Mr. Woods had stepped up to him and asked him about what he was working on. 

Arthur had explained his concept quickly and Mr. Woods had nodded and made some suggestions about light and shading and the use of his pencils. He had returned on his rounds three more times, offering small adjustments and asking Arthur questions, and Arthur had been still working when the class was over at 4. 

Now he intends to finish the piece, another impossible living space made of stone and metal and glass built into a giant cave underneath the sea. He pictures a family going about their everyday tasks, children playing, the father making dinner, the mother working on a laptop, cats curled up on the rug, while outside, fantastical sea creatures are frolicking in the green water. 

Only moments after he has sat down at his desk, his door opens without someone knocking, and when Arthur swivels around with his chair, Merlin is standing in the doorframe, scowling at him. 

“Why are you avoiding me?” Frustration is swinging in Merlin’s tone and his posture is tense. 

Sighing, Arthur puts down his pencil and slowly rises from the chair. “Seriously?” he asks and when Merlin’s scowl just darkens, adds, “You really have to ask that?” 

Merlin glares, his eyes burning and he pushes himself off the doorframe and presses the door shut behind him with the weight of his body. “I didn’t mean to fuck it up,” he mutters defensively. “I thought we were pretty clear about what this…” he indicates the empty space between them with a wave of his hand, “...is.” 

“You... “ Arthur starts in frustration, his voice high and loud, and he involuntarily takes a step forward, before he catches himself and continues more level-headedly, “... fuck, Merlin, you … you fucking mocked me the other day.” 

“I - I was surprised,” Merlin grinds out between clenched teeth. “I didn’t realise you would get confused.” He looks unhappy, his mouth pulled into a frown.

“I told you from the start it was a bad idea.” 

Merlin’s face twitches like Arthur said something particularly distasteful and he kneads his bottom lip with his teeth. He’s silent for a long time, like he is thinking really hard how to answer Arthur, but when he finally speaks, it doesn’t sound like he thought much about his words.

“How was I to know that you can’t handle a casual fuck?” Merlin says and he sounds affronted and defensive like Arthur is the one being unreasonable. 

“You call this a casual fuck?!” Arthur growls in disbelief, because surely, Merlin can’t still think that! -and takes another step forward, an action that makes him invade Merlin’s personal space and puts them within breathing distance. From up close he can see how blue Merlin’s eyes are, blue with little specks of gray and green. 

Merlin looks startled, which is an unusual look on him, and his mouth is parted in his reaction to Arthur’s rare outburst. Usually, Merlin is just so loud-mouthed and wordy, so quick with his tongue and sharp wit, but now he just looks gobsmacked and thrown and unable to get out a reply. 

Arthur suddenly wants to assure both Merlin and himself that it’s not casual, that this is all far from casual, has long since steered away from casual and entered the realm of just too fucked up and serious, and before he knows what he’s doing, he reaches out and grabs Merlin’s stupid, gawping face and kisses him. 

Merlin gasps out a startled moan against his lips and grips his biceps through his shirt, but doesn’t push him away, his fingers digging hard points into Arthur’s muscles. For a long moment they sway unsteadily back and forth before Arthur pulls back slowly. His fingers are trembling where they still rest against the side of Merlin’s face. 

“Arthur,” Merlin murmurs and it’s not quite a protest. Arthur leans in again, pushes hard, puts all his frustration into the shove and the kiss, satisfied when Merlin’s weight crashes into the door and makes the frame rattle. Breath rushes out of Merlin in another gasp, but he’s kissing back, fisting his long fingers into Arthur’s hair. 

Arthur kisses him with all his frustration, with all his pent up emotion, groaning when Merlin gives back as good as he gets. When they break apart panting, Merlin’s hands are already at Arthur’s fly, fumbling with the zipper, and they stumble through the room, knocking against furniture and tripping over Arthur’s backpack on their way towards the bed. 

Breathing hard, Arthur shoves Merlin down onto the bed, eyes greedily raking over Merlin’s frame, satisfied that Merlin is already hastily removing his clothing without prompting. Arthur strips still standing, feeling Merlin’s eyes on him while he divests himself off his shirt and trousers and underwear. He manages to tug off his socks without toppling over, before crawling over Merlin and pulling forcefully at his skinny jeans, taking them off him together with his pants. 

When he leans down, Merlin pulls him into another kiss, tongue hot in his mouth, fingers curling on the nape of his neck. They roll around on Arthur’s narrow bed, knocking their elbows and knees on the wall as they twist and turn, fighting for the upper hand. Arthur has enough after a while and uses his greater weight to his advantage, pinning Merlin down with his body, aligning their hips. He grounds down, enjoying the way Merlin tosses his head back and moans, his eyes, when he looks at Arthur, half-lidded and soft with lust. 

Arthur reaches out and fumbles in his bedside drawer and tosses lube and condoms onto the bedspread. He slaps Merlin’s hands away when he reaches for them and sits up between Merlin’s legs, uncapping the lube and pouring a dollop onto his fingers, brushing them together before reaching down between Merlin’s legs. Beneath him, Merlin is breathing hard, his chest rising and falling, but when Arthur just looks at him, he gives a small shaky nod of his head and closes his eyes at the first touch of Arthur’s fingers. 

Usually, he would encourage Arthur, say increasingly outrageous and dirty things to spur him on, but not this time. Merlin is oddly silent, only his breath is going fast, but he cries out when Arthur pushes two fingers into him without preamble. 

“Fuck, fuck,” Merlin whimpers, but he starts moving his hips right away, pushing Arthur’s fingers deeper. He’s gasping on every stroke, body taught as a bowstring, a concentrated frown on his face as his teeth worry his bottom lip. Arthur pulls out his fingers, applies more lube, pushes in three and swallows Merlin’s grunt with a kiss. He prepares him quickly, impatient to be inside Merlin, to possess him, to prove there’s nothing casual about this, that Merlin is his, no matter if he grinds at clubs with strangers. 

Merlin doesn’t protest when Arthur turns him to his side, before putting on a condom with now practiced ease and slides up behind him, slotting his body into the curve of Merlin’s. He reaches for Merlin’s leg, pushing it up and forward, enjoying how irregular Merlin’s breath is coming. His fingers fumble as he places the head of his cock between Merlin’s arse cheeks. Merlin hisses as Arthur presses forward and Arthur moans his pleasure at the tight heat enveloping him into the nape of Merlin’s neck, noses where Merlin smells irresistibly, black curls tickling his face. He slides forward steadily, feels the trembling of Merlin’s body and listens to the soft curses spilling from Merlin’s lips. 

He stills once he’s all the way inside, gritting his teeth against the sensation of having Merlin so close, mouth moving over Merlin’s shoulder and neck up to his ear. He licks the shell of Merlin’s ear and hitches his hips, rewarded by Merlin’s sharp intake of breath. His body wants to move, but he’s also enjoying the suspension and heat of Merlin’s body, so he holds out and concentrates on licking and biting across the goosebumps on Merlin’s neck. 

“Arthur, will you fucking move?” Merlin whines, reaches back with one hand and presses it against Arthur’s hips, all but willing him to do so. Arthur kisses him then, licks the whine from his mouth and rewards him with a roll of his hips that has Merlin whimper into his mouth. 

“I love the noises you make,” he confesses, drunk with arousal, pressing his mouth back against Merlin’s shoulder. 

“Then make me make noises,” Merlin groans and clutches at his hip desperately, pushing his own hips back. 

With a growl Arthur does just that, reaches for Merlin’s dick and starts rolling his hips in earnest. He tries for different angles, satisfied when Merlin cries out sharply, taking this as his cue to hit the same spot as often as possibly, until Merlin is all but writhing in his arms, shuddering out his name with increasingly desperate, broken sobs. Arthur clasps his free hand over Merlin’s mouth, sshing him, conscious of how they aren’t at home alone and how Morgana is probably in her room across the hall. Merlin’s breath comes quick and wet against his palm. 

Arthur loses himself in the heat of Merlin’s body, torn between chasing his own completion and reducing Merlin to incoherence. The slap of their bodies is satisfying and dirty as is the way Merlin is fisting the sheets. Arthur listens to every muffled moan that is his name, triumphant when Merlin’s body goes taut and he spills over Arthur’s fingers in quick, hard spurts. 

Arthur pushes Merlin over onto his front, not caring that he’s smearing come all over the sheets and twists his fingers with Merlin, pushing his knees between his legs to get leverage in the new position. Beneath him, Merlin is shuddering out his aftershocks. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he whispers, grinding his arse back into Arthur’s thrusts, even though he must be sensitive after his orgsam, and clenches his muscles, his fingers clutching at Arthur’s, holding on. 

Arthur comes with a sob, riding out his orgasm until relaxation washes over him and he slumps back down against Merlin, nearly crushing him to the bed. For a while he just catches his breath, his head dizzy, his blood rushing in his ears, heart pounding madly against Merlin’s back. 

When he moves, carefully reaching down for the condom and slipping out of Merlin’s body, Merlin rolls over with a grunt and a groan, arm slung over his face. His lips are bitten raw and his face is flushed and he’s still panting, his chest heaving. 

Arthur gets rid of the condom quickly, then lies back down, shame slowly gripping him. He’s not quite sure what came over him, how he took that situation and totally veered off the track. With growing concern, he mentally tracks back to their brief conversation beforehand. The realisation of what he’s about to do, of what he’s about to confess makes him feel fatalistic and doomed. 

“I’m falling in love with you.” 

It’s a surprise, the way his words hang in the air between them, how they sounded coming out of his mouth, sure and calm. He doesn’t feel sure or calm at all, but he experiences a feeling of inevitability, of standing at the edge of a cliff and knowing he needs to jump off it or never be able to leave.

Merlin hisses out a surprised breath and reaches up to press the heels of his hands into his eyes. “Shit, Arthur!... Shit!” he groans, sounding pained and desperate. 

It’s not exactly a reaction Arthur expected. He doesn’t think it’s a reaction that’s warranted by a confession of this sort. Next to him, Merlin is breathing hard, and Arthur doesn’t dare look at him, instead staring up at the ceiling. His body is reverberating with residue arousal. Just a minute earlier, he was still inside Merlin. Now it feels like Merlin is miles away. 

He ponders saying he’s sorry, only he’s not. He wants to say, it’s not your fault, only it totally is. 

“Fuck,” Merlin mutters and Arthur turns his head sideways to watch him drag his hands over his face, smooshing up his features. “Fuck.” 

Arthur winces and shakes his head, pondering his wisdom in saying anything at all. Only he couldn’t help himself, the urge to get it out was suddenly there, strong and inexorable. 

“Oh my God,” Merlin moans. “Arthur…” He sounds like Arthur did something particularly moronic. When he sits up, pulling his knees up and wrapping his arms around his legs, and faces Arthur, his eyes are wide and feverish and he looks a bit manic. “You can’t. You absolutely can’t.” 

Tension grips Arthur’s body, weighing him down like a heavy blanket. “I realise you’re not feeling the same. I just can’t help it. Merlin, you’re…” he trails off, not knowing how to describe what he feels, what Merlin is to him. At the same time, something inside him shrivels up and dies, possibly the shred of hope that thought Merlin might feel the same, despite his careless words. 

Merlin looks pained and he wraps his arms around himself tighter, looking impossibly vulnerable and young. “My Mum is going to kill me. Your father is going to kill me. I’m dead. They will obliterate me.” 

“You didn’t do anything,” Arthur mutters, confused. 

Snorting darkly, Merlin wipes his face against his arm. “Shit, I’m the biggest moron. The most moronic idiot.”

When Arthur sits up, wanting to reach out, connect, if just for a moment, Merlin swings his legs over the side of the bed and gets up, reaching down to pick up his shirt and trousers. His shoulders are tense as he collects his clothes from where they are strewn around the room. From the bed, Arthur watches, feeling his stomach cramp with a feeling of inevitable dread. 

Finally, Merlin turns, looking awkward and disrupted with the way his pile of clothes is held in front of him like a shield. “You’re right. This was a bad idea. We shouldn’t do it again.” His voice shakes, despite his levelled words.

They stare at each other, but neither says another word. Arthur feels blank and strange and speechless. Merlin is saying the right words, drawing the only logical conclusion, but it’s not what Arthur wants to hear. He remembers Merlin’s fingers tangling with his that night on Bwlch y Groes and he wishes they were back there and Arthur wasn’t pulling away. 

When Merlin finally moves, stiffly stumbling towards their shared bathroom, Arthur bites his lip and digs his fingers into his palms, stifling the need to call him back. The bathroom door falls shut with a click behind Merlin, and Arthur drops his head in his hands, breathing carefully in and out, and in and out. He wants to scream, to hit something, to throw something, to cry. 

He doesn’t do anything of the sort.


	11. Part 1: 2014 - Chapter 11

Three nights later, Uther calls him into his office again. For the last two weeks, Uther has barely even addressed him at dinner, with disappointment radiating off him in waves whenever he looked at Arthur, but of course it had only been a matter of time until Uther had collected his thoughts enough to deal with Arthur. 

When Arthur enters, Uther is sitting behind his desk, all business-like in one of his dark suits with a matching tie. He looks regal and deceptively forbearing, but Arthur knows that underneath Uther’s calm demeanour lies the potential for severe outrage. 

Uther wordlessly indicates the chair in front of his desk, and Arthur slides into it, carefully placing the folder he brought with him on his knees. His hands are sweaty where he grips the folder too tightly, and he mentally steels himself for the conversation ahead. It was inevitable and he has had ample time to prepare himself, but he’s still nervous now. He’s about to come clean to his father, at least in one regard, and it’s a new thing, stepping in front of Uther and being completely honest about his own wishes. 

Across from him, Uther unfolds his hands and places them on the table, exhaling a long breath. “Two weeks ago, you told me you didn’t apply for law, even though you made me think you did. You lied to me and in doing so, made me look a fool in front of my colleagues.” 

There is a pause, carefully chosen for his apology, and Arthur exhales slowly. 

“Yes. And I’m very sorry for having done that. I should have been honest with you. I just…” he trails off, because apologising wasn’t the difficult part, but explaining why he did what he did, is. 

“You just…” Uther prompts and looks at him sternly, leaning forward in his chair. 

“You were so determined I study law and follow you into your profession. I didn’t know how to tell you I don’t want that for myself.” Arthur swallows, bites his lip and tries to see a reaction on his father’s poker face. “I didn’t want to disappoint you.” 

“What you did was worse,” Uther says and Arthur winces, because here it is, Uther’s disappointment staring him in the face. 

“I was too scared. I didn’t know how to tell you.” The words come and they hurt, but they are true, and Arthur is tired of lying to spare anyone’s feeling, least at all, his own. 

Uther is silent for a long moment, contemplating him carefully, but there’s some other expression on his face now, his stern poker face making way for a softer, more fatherly emotion. Arthur realises with surprise that he can tell Uther is pleased with how Arthur chose to explain himself, honestly and matter of fact.

“So…” Uther says, steepling his fingers over each other, “the question is, what do you plan to do instead? Have you applied for anything else?” 

Taking a deep breath, Arthur chooses to not say anything, but place the portfolio on Uther’s desk, pushing the folder carefully towards him. 

Uther looks surprised, his eyebrows raised as he glances between the folder and Arthur, before he gently places his fingers on the folder and opens it. He pauses with his eyes set on the first drawing, puzzlement written all over his face, and Arthur realises that this isn’t what Uther thought he would be seeing when he opened the folder.

Arthur is proud of the drawing - it’s the one Merlin picked out before asking him if he was going to apply to art school, and he knows it’s a great start for his portfolio, an eye-catching, just that side of weird and intricate design that shows off his skill with a pencil nicely. He watches his father’s eyes take in the page for a long time. 

There’s a quick glance up at Arthur, so much confusion in Uther’s gaze, before his father carefully turns the page over to reveal the next drawing done in black fine liner. Arthur made it about a month ago, sitting on Merlin’s bed with his back against the wall and the sketchbook open on his knees, while Merlin was busy jotting down lyrics on paper. He remembers the night well, most of all the quiet contentment he was experiencing as they were both working quietly. Arthur had sketched the messy part of Merlin’s room, the chaotic clutter of pedal boxes, cable and keyboards with their numerous dials and switches. 

Uther takes his time in studying the lines, before he turns the drawing over to a sketchbook page dedicated to a study of eyes done in color. Arthur had been fascinated by the fact that no one's eyes were the same and that even in evenly coloured irises you could find specks and flecks of other colours. 

More drawings follow, observational pieces of everyday objects, a portrait of Morgana, a charcoal piece of a Welsh landscape - a quick sketch he did on one of their hiking tours -, movement captures of rugby players during training, the drawing he did of Paul Atreides in his ornithopter, another architectural study that uses watercolour. 

Uther gives each and every drawing his consideration, quietly and carefully flips through the portfolio without saying a word. The surprise fades from his face slowly, but his features don't betray any emotion. 

Arthur is fidgeting in his seat, barely able to contain himself, to not point out some small detail Uther might have missed. When Uther finally closes the portfolio after having looked at every piece in it, the tension is almost unbearable. 

“This is what I want to do,” he blurts out. “I want to be an artist. I want to go to art school.” 

Uther is looking at him for a long, long time and Arthur hates how he’s so very unable to read him. He waits for the outrage, the protests, but Uther just sighs. 

“I see,” he says. It sounds resigned and not at all happy, but he isn’t angry, not like Arthur expected him to be. 

“It won’t be easy,” Uther says listlessly, his voice monotone. “It’s going to take a lot of effort and it might never pay off. I’ve seen what it did to your mother.” 

“I know,” Arthur mutters. 

“A law position would have come easily to you. It was my intention to help you.” 

“I know that,” Arthur says again. Uther’s disappointment is palpable, but strangely enough, it doesn’t pain him as much as he thought it would, as it did in the past. It’s the price he has to pay. He has to make things right for himself, not for others. 

“If the application doesn’t work out, you’re taking another year of school to think about other options.”

Arthur nods. He expected that, it’s his father’s practical side and secretly, he agrees. 

Uther carefully picks up the folder and holds it out to him. When he reaches out for it, Uther doesn’t immediately let go. 

“Your mother would have been proud of you.” 

The implication is there - he has yet to make Uther proud - but the words stir something in Arthur nonetheless. 

“Thanks,” he says thickly. He can’t remember when Uther last mentioned his mother. 

They don’t say anything else, but when Arthur leaves, it feels like the weight of the world has dropped off his shoulders. 

The last two weeks of November pass in a whirlwind of activity. Two rugby games, his training, school work and now working on his portfolio leave almost no room for Arthur to wallow in self pity. After another in-depth talk about Arthur’s concept, Mr. Woods has outlined a plan of action and together they mapped out what kind of art pieces and techniques are still missing in Arthur’s application folder. 

When before, Arthur’s room had been tidy and his artwork carefully tucked away, it’s now spilling over with paper and concepts, pencils, watercolours and pastels. He’s working on his art almost constantly now when he’s at home, and there’s no need to hide anymore. Sometimes, he’s sketching and drawing until his eyes start stinging and he’s so tired, he can barely keep upright. Presenting a great portfolio has become his major priority and because there are barely any other distractions with Merlin ignoring him, he’s been making the progress needed. 

They haven’t really talked since Merlin padded out of Arthur’s room with his clothes awkwardly wrapped in a bundle in his arms. These days, when Arthur looks at Merlin across the dinner table, Merlin looks away, his gaze immediately finding another spot to rest on, like he can’t stand looking Arthur in the face. His expression is always guarded nowadays and he fidgets in his seat, some nervous energy vibrating under his skin. 

From what Arthur gathers, Merlin is barely at home. He seems to be working a lot and only returns late at night, uncharacteristically quiet and subdued even when he’s in. His presence in the other room makes Arthur go stir-crazy. Sometimes, at night, he lies awake, knowing that just behind the wall, Merlin is lying in his own bed. It’s torture, picturing him curled up just a couple of yards away, knees tucked up to his belly, the knobs of his spine prominent underneath his thin, washed out night shirt. He tortures himself with the memory of Merlin’s warm body wrapped around him, of Merlin’s curly hair tickling underneath his chin and he itches to reach out. More than once, he keeps himself from getting up and barging into Merlin’s room. The only thing keeping him from it is that he feels terribly pathetic and lovelorn. Merlin made it clear that he’s not interested in Arthur like that and Arthur should better accept it. 

Distraction comes in the form of Lance, who organises a private film viewing in his parents' living room. At first, Arthur wants to decline, but he's being persistent. Elena keeps insisting that he brings Merlin, so Arthur claims that Merlin is busy at his uncle’s chemist shop. It’s funny how when he shows up alone, everyone seems disappointed and asks after Merlin’s whereabouts, unknowingly rubbing salt into Arthur’s wounds. They watch terrible action movies and Arthur can’t concentrate and there’s nothing to numb his mind, acutely aware of the empty space next to him, knowing Merlin would have had a blast ridiculing the awful acting, corny dialogue and overblown action. He aches for Merlin’s presence, his easy laughter and sharp wit and he desperately wants to be home, back at his table, sketching and drawing and forgetting all about it. 

When he comes home that Friday night, he runs into Merlin in the hallway. Merlin is carrying a glass of peanut butter in one hand and a banana in the other, and he looks like he just came home from band practice. His hair is its usual carefully styled mess and he wears a shirt Uther would probably comment on unfavourably, pale skin visible through irregular cracks of mesh in the black fabric. 

“Hey,” Merlin says softly and blinks, looking nervous. 

“Hey,” Arthur echoes, and his mouth is suddenly dry. 

They are both silent for a while. Arthur doesn’t know what to say. They’re standing closer than they have been in a fortnight now and Merlin looks tired and soft and Arthur’s heart surges with a combination of fondness and pain. 

“I’m hungry,” Merlin says unnecessarily, lifting both hands and indicating the food items. 

“Peanut butter is good…. I like that brand,” Arthur says awkwardly, wincing at how he sounds like a complete moron. 

“Yeah… the chunks are good… I like crunchy more than plain regular.” 

“Mhmmm,” Arthur agrees and chews on his lip, wondering if he should step back or around Merlin or where to move at all. He feels drawn towards him like a magnet is drawn towards true North and all he wants is to reach out and connect. Between them, the food is like a shield, held out almost defensively. 

“… I’m going to bed,” Merlin mutters and then takes a step at the same time Arthur moves to give him space. They collide with each other, banging their foreheads. 

“Uhmm…” Arthur says and rubs his temple, then takes a step in the other direction, only Merlin has the same idea. 

Merlin bites his lip and looks uncomfortable. “Right. I just… we’ll just both move to the left, okay?” 

Arthur nods, but he’s so confused that he messes up and moves right. 

“Are you fucking doing this on purpose?” Merlin asks, vexed, glaring. 

“No!” Arthur protests, holds up his hands in a gesture of defense and steps back, making ample room for Merlin to walk past him. 

Merlin does so with a tense posture, his face scowly and eyes stormy. He stomps up the stairs and Arthur just stands there in the entry hall and breathes and tries not to notice how Merlin’s arse looks rather enticing when he’s climbing stairs. 

When Merlin has vanished around the second landing, he follows quietly and slowly. He listens for the click of Merlin’s door closing, then accelerates his steps. His room feels strange and quiet. When he strains his ears, he can hear Merlin move around the other room. The scrape of a chair, something toppling over in that mess of instruments, Merlin’s quiet curse. 

Sighing, Arthur sits down on his bed, feeling tired and sad. His phone beeps with an income message, some meme Percival forwarded, and Arthur gives a quick reply, before fiddling with his phone, thumbing through instagram. He starts when there’s suddenly a picture of Merlin on his sceen, looking highly concentrated as he scribbles something on a piece of paper sitting cross-legged on the floor in the same shirt Arthur just saw him in earlier. It’s Gwen’s account, where she has posted pictures from their band rehearsal. 

Merlin looks thoughtful and his hair is floppily falling into his face. His mouth is pink and soft, and the way he’s slightly hunched over is disarmingly approachable. Arthur swallows and swipes left, thumbing through the other pictures. He thinks he might be a masochist, but he’s missing Merlin so much, he’s grateful for every scrap. Another picture shows Freya behind the microphone, her head tilted and eyes closed. Will reading chords from a piece of paper. Another of Merlin and Will, their heads together as they both stare down at notes, in discussion. Mordred, fiddling with his guitar. 

Mordred. 

He’s smiling as he plucks on the strings and he’s almost disgustingly handsome. 

Arthur doesn’t really think about it. He opens his contacts and fires off a quick text, before returning back to Instagram, swiping through the rest of the pictures, before moving on through his feed.

Not half a minute later, his phone bings with an incoming message. 

_ Mordred :-): Arthur, of course I remember you. changed your mind about that date?  _

Taking a deep breath, Arthur starts typing out a reply. 

Mordred is just as Arthur remembers - laid-back but also slightly enigmatic and interesting. They meet at a café in Islington and the afternoon passes so quickly, that Arthur is quietly amazed when he realises it has gotten dark outside. Nonetheless he feels no compulsion at all to leave. 

Just like the first time they talked, they connect easily. For a while they swap stories about rugby, about injuries and games and mean training sessions. Arthur can hardly imagine Mordred on the rugby field, least of all in the offensive position he was playing, but Mordred knows what he’s talking about. The topic of conversation changes to their schooling. Mordred is studying socio economics at Queen Mary in his first year and he has such a skill in telling stories about his teachers and fellow students, that Arthur is laughing along, highly entertained. 

It’s surprisingly easy to tell Mordred about his art ambitions and with a little bit of a shock, Arthur realises that it’s not a secret anymore, nothing he needs to hide from the world. He thinks of all the people who have no idea yet, who he has kept in the dark, people who are dear to him, his friends, who all just assume he’s going to law school and shame creeps up on him. He has been lying about so many things. He will have to rectify this fault soon. 

Of course Mordred is curious about what he’s been drawing, so Arthur opens his phone and shows him some of his scanned work. There are a couple of drawings of Merlin in there, some of them not entirely innocuous, and Arthur flushes and swipes through them quickly, wondering whatever made him scan those to his art folder in the first place. It’s nothing really dirty and apart from one where he drew Merlin sitting at his desk in his briefs and eating an apple while reading a book, the fact that it’s Merlin at all is probably unrecognizable, but it still makes Arthur uncomfortable and twitchy. 

“This is lovely,” Mordred says, pointing at Morgana’s portrait, the one Arthur did after a photograph. The way Mordred leans close over the table to study his phone’s screen makes Mordred’s curls brush Arthur’s cheek, sending a pleasant shiver through him. Mordred smells good, like he took a shower briefly before going out. 

Arthur’s pleased with Morgana’s portrait, but at the same time, he wishes he could have had her sit for him.

“I’ve been focusing on observational studies. People are the hardest. It’s much more challenging drawing from someone who sits for you opposed to just copying from a photograph. This was obviously a photograph.”

“I couldn’t tell,” Mordred says, grinning. “You’re really talented.” 

Arthur shrugs at the praise, a bit embarrassed. It’s weird talking to someone about his art, even weirder still if they are appreciative and impressed. 

“I can sit for you if you want,” Mordred offers and cups his chin in his hand.

“You’d have to sit still for a very long time,” Arthur says, but he feels grateful for the offer. He’s lacking a model now that Merlin isn’t lounging around in his room most of the time. 

“I wouldn’t mind. I like spending time with you.” Mordred sounds honest and a little bit flirty and it’s like he’s hitting all the right buttons. He’s leaning forward on the table, his eyes sparkling, his attention intense.

Arthur flushes, feels the heat creep into his face. He could imagine drawing Mordred, that interesting face full of soft lines and hard angles, capture the duality he perceives there.

“That’d be nice, I guess,” he says carefully. There’s a certain intimacy about drawing someone, of how he always feels like he’s dissecting a person and how it’s always voyeuristic and private. He has to find a connection to the person he’s portraying, maybe fall a little bit in love with them, even if they’re a stranger, even if they’re a 89-year old, grumpy grandfather with a cane sitting on a park bench. 

Mordred smiles and reaches over the table to shake Arthur’s hand. “It’s a done deal, then,” he says formally and his hand is warm and firm in Arthur’s. He doesn’t let go immediately, instead his thumb swipes gently across the back of Arthur’s knuckles. 

Swallowing, Arthur nods. He’s acutely aware of them being in public, of how Mordred is holding onto his hand for everyone to see. It’s both exhilarating and scary and he realises with astonishment that he’s not used to public displays of affection from other guys where everyone can see. 

“I had a great time,” Mordred says, and his voice is low and pleased and still a little bit flirty. 

“Me too,” Arthur agrees and looks down at where Mordred’s thumb is still stroking his skin. Heat shivers up his spine at the touch, the sensation causing the small hairs to rise on his arms. 

“We should do it again. Maybe go to the cinema.” 

A second date. While their first meeting felt like maybe the set-up to a one-off encounter, this feels somewhat different, more serious. It’s nothing like the clandestine meet-ups in secret he had last year with Peter Browning from his Maths class that were brief and mainly focused on getting off together in the boys’ bathroom. It’s not at all like the covert, passion-filled and guilt-ridden sneaking around with Merlin behind closed doors. Here’s a boy who wants to be seen with him in public, who wants to go out on real dates, who is ready to tell the world that he’s seeing Arthur. 

“I… I’d like that. Yes,” Arthur stammers, feeling a smile blossom on his face from out of nowhere. He didn’t realise he wants this as much as he does. It’s another step out of his comfort zone, but just like telling Uther about his art, this too, feels inevitable. 

“We could go see that new movie with Benedict Cumberbatch about Alan Turing?” Mordred suggests hesitantly, like he isn’t sure if that’s entirely Arthur’s cup of tea. 

“Let’s do that,” Arthur agrees, looking down at where Mordred is still holding his hand, not letting go. He’s starting to feel light-headed and giddy, and he knows he must look really stupid beaming at Mordred like that, but Mordred only grins back, apparently not at all concerned with how Arthur is behaving like a complete moron. 

Later, outside the coffee shop when they say goodbye, before Arthur walks towards the tube station and Mordred gets onto his bike, Mordred leans forward and kisses him, a quick peck of lips, like it’s something they just do, like it’s something they have agreed upon by planning a second date. It’s over quickly and it feels more friendly than passionate, but Arthur can feel the stupid grin on his face all the way home.

Traditionally, the Pendragons go ice skating in Hyde Park on the first weekend in December. Arthur remembers skating in the park ever since he was a little kid. He has a very early memory of being about three or four and sitting on a sled together with Morgana, bundled up in fake fur blankets and a snowsuit, dragged along behind Uther, while his mother skated around them in circles, laughing. Then, later, he learned to skate on his own, supported by both his parents, Morgana stumbling along on her tiny feet alongside him. Ice skating had been one of their favourite things to do as a family, and it had been the one thing they had kept on doing even after his mother’s death, and it’s still a thing, even though Uther seems to half-expect Arthur and Morgana to decline in embarrassment year after year. 

This year, it’s different. 

Hunith is excited like a little girl, claiming she hasn’t been skating since she was sixteen. Merlin, on the other hand, is grumbling and moody as they take the 74 to Hyde Park Corner, which probably might also be because it’s 9.30 a.m. on a Sunday. The bus is very full, but it’s the quickest way to get to the ice rink, taking them only twelve minutes. Even so, they are all happy to disembark, walking the last ten minutes from the park’s entrance to the ice rink at the Blue Gate of Winter Wonderland. 

Arthur booked an early morning session, because the ice is best then - freshly made up and unmarred by thousands of sharp curves making grooves - and there aren’t that many people yet, making it possible to actually skate instead of just shuffle along in the dense crowd. Winter Wonderland can get crazily busy in the afternoons when the time slots are completely booked. They collect their skates from the skate hire, before moving onto the rink. 

Watching Merlin struggle with his skates on the rubber floor, stumbling along unsteadily behind them as they walk towards the entrance, Arthur has the horrible realisation that Merlin has never been on ice before. His suspicion is confirmed when Merlin steps onto the ice with shaky legs, grips the ice rink wall tightly, his fingers curling around the rink topper, then shuffles awkwardly along the side, not letting go off the wooden rail. 

Ahead, Hunith tightly grips Uther’s hand and after a couple of stumbling steps seems to catch her stride, gliding along, her laughter trailing back towards them as they take off. 

“Oh God, Merlin!” Morgana laughs from behind Arthur, before there’s a woosh of air and she stops elegantly next to Arthur’s right. She looks like a dark ice princess in her black leggings and black, short jacket, a dark-green woolen hat pulled over her ears. 

“Come on, Arthur, let’s help him,” she adds, ignoring Merlin’s pained expression as she glides forward towards him. Carefully, she pries Merlin’s fingers away from the rink wall, rolling her eyes at him when he protests weakly and looks mildly panicked. “Aww, don’t be such a baby,” she chides him and grips his hand tightly. “Just one step at a time.” 

“It’s easy for you to say,” Merlin mutters darkly and takes an unsteady, wobbling step, then another. 

It’s painful to watch. He looks like a foal taking its first steps, his long legs appearing to slide out from under him at any moment. Morgana tugs him forward and Merlin skids and flails in response, nearly toppling over. 

“Arthur!” Morgana hisses and glares at him, swaying with Merlin’s weight as Merlin tries to desperately find his balance. 

Sighing, Arthur steps forward and supports Merlin by gripping his arm tightly. “All right, what do we do?” he asks, knowing he sounds annoyed. Babysitting Merlin-on-ice wasn’t exactly what he signed up for. He looks longingly at where Hunith and Uther are rounding the corner ahead with appropriate speed. 

“We’re taking him between us,” Morgana explains, ever practical in her solutions. 

“I’m not a child,” Merlin grouses and tries to pull away, which only makes him sway and flail again. 

“Oh, shut up. Do you rather want to hurt yourself?” Morgana mutters, rolls her eyes and grips his fingers tightly, preventing him from pulling away. 

Huffing out a mutted curse, Arthur relents and takes Merlin’s other hand, trying to ignore the way his stupid, traiturous heart leaps when their fingers touch. 

“This is a sodding stupid sport,” Merlin moans, his fingers flexing in Arthur’s. “It’s dangerous… and insane. Why would anyone think it’s a good idea to do this? I’m going to break my legs.” 

“You’re not,” Morgana says, sounding determined. “Look, just put your feet like this… and now… slide…” 

They skid forward and Merlin squawks in alarm - which is a little bit hilarious - but is kept upright by Morgana and Arthur pulling him along, balancing out his unsteady swaying. Ever so often, Merlin will lurch to one side, tugging sharply on Arthur’s hand as he stumbles, but somehow, they manage to keep him upright, and after a couple of minutes where they stagger across the ice like a strange, three-headed monster, Merlin seems to find his balance and their movement becomes somewhat more coordinated. 

“See?” Morgana beams happily, her face flushed with the cold and the movement, “you are getting the hang of it!”

Merlin looks doubtful, but less uneasy than before, a concentrated frown on his face as he glances down at his feet, carefully setting his skates on the ice, more often than not able to glide rather than stumble now. 

Arthur’s hand is warm and sweaty where Merlin’s fingers wrap around him, in spite of the chill in the early December air. They haven’t touched in a fortnight or more and Merlin’s hand feels strange in his, making Arthur acutely aware of Merlin’s presence. 

Morgana accelerates and Arthur follows and together, they lead Merlin over the ice with greater ease. It’s more like skating now and Arthur experiences that familiar joy of moving over the ice so effortlessly. Between them, Merlin lets out a laugh, surprised and startled, and when Arthur glances at him, he’s looking like he’s enjoying himself, his mouth tugged into a smile, eyes bright. In the early, gray morning light, he appears especially pasty pale today apart from two bright spots on his cheeks, and the way his black hair curls from under his beanie is a shocking contrast to his fair skin. 

“See, it is fun!” Morgana cheers, and then speeds up again, and Merlin’s laughter follows, slightly bewildered but joyous. Something about the way he whoops makes Arthur feel elated and happy, and he finds himself laughing along, momentarily forgetting that they aren’t even on speaking terms, that Merlin walked out on him after Arthur revealed his feelings. 

For the next fifteen minutes, they speed around the ice rink, laughing and whooping and evading everyone who gets in their way and Arthur experiences an aching fondness for both Morgana and Merlin that makes his heart feel like it’s going to burst. 

Then, suddenly and without warning, Morgana calls out a greeting as they pass a friend of hers from school and the next moment, she is off, having let go of Merlin’s hand, unbalancing them both as she skates away. 

Merlin lets out a yelp and starts flailing, his free hand shooting out to clutch at Arthur’s clothes, his body weight crashing into Arthur’s side. They go down in a tangle of limbs, sprawling hard on the ice. 

“Oops,” Morgana calls from somewhere behind them, but she’s cackling, not at all apologetic. 

“Owwww,” Merlin moans, trying to push himself up. He grimaces as he sits up, his hands digging harshly into Arthur’s thigh as he presses down to find purchase. “Sorry… sorry.”

With a groan, Arthur manages to push himself up, then helps Merlin to his feet, balancing them both as Merlin wobbles upright. 

“Are you all right?” he asks, carefully holding onto the lapels of Merlin’s coat. 

“Owww,” Merlin says again, like a confirmation. 

“Did you hurt yourself?” Arthur asks, glancing at Merlin’s face and checking him over. 

“Just a bruise. My arse is probably flat now. Forever,” Merlin mutters jokingly. 

“I doubt that,” Arthur says, rolling his eyes at the ridiculous claim. 

“I’m sorry I took you down with me.” 

“Come on,” Arthur sighs, carefully steadying Merlin, before reaching for his hand again. 

They start moving again, a little more unsteadily than before without Morgana helping them, but Merlin has actually become better in skating and they manage another round without either of them falling on their asses. 

After one more round around the ice rink Arthur deems Merlin fit to skate without assistance and insists that Merlin lets go of his hand and though Merlin keeps complaining, he does as he's told, staggering along behind Arthur. Arthur isn’t a complete arse and unlike Morgana doesn't abandon their step-brother, so he keeps close and skates ahead, stopping once in a while to wait up for Merlin. 

Merlin is getting the hang of it even though he will very likely never become a great skater, or graceful at that. But graceful is not a word Arthur would ever use when describing Merlin, so he figures it's good enough that Merlin isn’t sprawling on the ice constantly. The rink starts to fill with people at around eleven and Arthur feels a bit sad that the time of undisturbed skating is over. Usually, they stop around noon anyway and have food in the winter village, getting hot potatoes or street food from the food vendors. 

He’s about to wait for Merlin again, when he hears a little yelp behind him and sees that another skater, barely more prolificent than Merlin has crashed into him, making Merlin careen forward with flailing arms. Arthur can barely brace himself, before Merlin comes staggering into him, pressing him back into the rink walls and making Arthur stumble, air rushing out of him with the impact. He manages to reach for Merlin’s arms while Merlin grabs wildly at his clothes for purchase. 

“Fuck,” Merlin exhales, his breath rushing warmly over Arthur’s face. They are so close that Arthur can see the little flecks of grey among the blues in Merlin’s eyes. His heart speeds up, pulse pounding like mad all of a sudden, and he finds himself gazing at Merlin’s parted lips, caught by the sudden, desperate longing to press their mouths together. It’d be so easy. He’s done it in the past, is able to remember with startling clarity the flavour of Merlin’s mouth, the feel of his warm, wet lips on his own, the way his tongue licks into Arthur’s mouth so damningly perfect that it makes his toes curl just thinking about it. 

Merlin’s breath hitches again, and Arthur finds that Merlin, too, has his eyes lowered to Arthur’s mouth, an observation that is confirmed when Arthur licks his lips and Merlin makes a small, disgruntled sound and pulls away with a jerk. 

“I think I have enough of ice skating for today,” he sputters, before awkwardly making his way towards the closest exit. 

Arthur watches him skate away clumsily, desperately trying to catch his breath. He decides to speed around the ice rink for a couple of times to clear his head, threading past other people carefully and with ease, enjoying when he actually works up a sweat. When he finally stops at the main entrance, where Hunith and Morgana are waving at him to make him join them for lunch, he feels marginally less tense. Merlin has obviously recovered from the incident as well, because he’s sitting on one of the benches, already munching a vegan hot dog from Oh My Dog!, his mouth and cheeks smeared with ketchup and curry sauce, roast onion bits flaking all over his trousers as he chews happily. 

“You are a traitor,” Arthur tells Morgana when they get in line for their hot dogs as well. 

“Because I left you alone with Merlin?” she asks, raising an eyebrow. There’s something in her tone he doesn’t like one bit, but before he can examine it too much, they are at the front of the line and need to choose their hot dogs and toppings. 

Later that day, Morgana calls for him when he walks past the open door to her room. He hesitates in the hallway just outside her door, for a brief moment entertaining the thought of ignoring her, before he relents and pushes the door to her room fully open. 

It hits him the next moment that he has never been in her room since she moved from her old room to the Skyroom. It’s a shock seeing her furniture and her things in the space that belonged to his mum. Even greater is his surprise, when he sees the easel by the window, carefully positioned, his mother’s last painting still unfinished resting on it. 

“You kept it,” he says slowly as he steps inside the room, hating how his voice sounds thick with emotion. 

“Yes,” Morgana replies simply, looking up at him from where she’s been sitting at her desk, reading in a book. “It reminds me of Mum.” 

When Arthur steps closer, taking in the painting, it’s unfinished lines and empty spaces, she adds, “I couldn’t put it away.” 

Arthur half-turns, finding Morgana smile at him sadly. She gets up and crosses the room to where he’s standing by the easel, then reaches out and trails her fingers over the canvas, her fingers following the outline of a tree, just a black line, not yet shadowed in. “I miss her. Every day. But this room, it makes me feel closer to her. It’s like she’s still around.” 

They are both silent for a bit, and Arthur swallows down the thick, congested feeling in his chest. 

Morgana turns towards him, smiling somewhat abashedly. “You must think I’m weird,” she mutters. 

Closing his eyes briefly, Arthur fights back a smile, feeling sorry for thinking that Morgana had forgotten all about their mum, of how she wasn’t as affected by her death. “Not at all,” he finally manages. His voice is low and gravelly and when Morgana glances his way, still looking abashed, he reaches out and draws her into an embrace, amazed when she allows it, sinking into his arms, her face pressed against his neck. 

He breathes out a shuddering sigh, hears Morgana’s answering soft exhale and then he just gives in and holds her, feeling himself held in return. They stay there, standing by their mother’s painting for a long while and when Arthur finally lets go, Arthur’s neck and shoulder are a bit damp and Morgana is wiping at her eyes stealthily. She sniffs, then laughs a bit when their eyes meet. 

“That was good,” she admits, and they both laugh some more with embarrassment. Arthur can’t remember the last time they hugged like that nor the last time he felt that close to her emotionally. 

He’s surprised when she takes a deliberate step towards the door and clicks it shut, before turning around to face him again. 

“I wanted to tell you something,” she says and bites her lip, glancing up at him a bit anxiously, like he’s going to run any moment now. 

“Go on,” he encourages her, wondering what she has to say to him. They aren’t usually this open with each other, and her inviting him for a talk is unprecedented. 

“I just wanted to tell you… you don’t have to hide from me.” She looks at him with a strangely fond, exasperated look that seems terribly displaced on his little sister’s face. Once again he’s struck by how much she seems to have grown up over the last couple of months, like she shed her skin and transformed. Gone is the bubbly, girly goth-teen, replaced by this vibrant, clever young woman. 

“If this is about my art…” he starts, but she rolls her eyes fondly, the gesture interrupting what he’s about to say. 

“I know about that, but it’s not about your art,” she says patiently and with great fondness, like he’s an idiot who needs to be protected at all costs. “It’s about Merlin.” 

Arthur feels his stomach bottom out at her words, his knees suddenly weak. “What about him?” he asks carefully, his voice hoarse. 

Morgana rolls her eyes again. “Oh, come on, Arthur,” she mutters, exasperated. “I know about Merlin.” 

Frantically, Arthur asks himself if there’s maybe the chance that she’s alluding to something else, but her next words leave no room for misinterpretation.

“And you. I’ve known for a while.” 

With a groan, Arthur sinks down on the edge of Morgana’s bed. His stomach is cramping badly and he feels like he’s going to be sick. “Oh God,” he moans, placing his head in his hands, feeling heat creep up on his face. 

“I saw you guys today. That was some high level romantic tension,” she says, then sits down on the bed next to him, placing a hand on his back. “Also, I have ears. Just because you’re across the hall-”” 

“Shut up,” Arthur whimpers, and Morgana cackles a little bit, the evil witch. 

“Anyway,” she says, “you need to know, because Gwen told me that Mordred told her, that he’s been going out with you and if that gets around to Merlin…” 

“I don’t think Merlin gives a fuck,” Arthur says, having partly recovered. “I also don’t think I like that you guys are talking behind our backs.” 

“It’s not exactly a well kept secret that you are arse over tits for each other,” Morgana mutters, rolling her eyes. “Well… maybe with your friends. They are thick.” 

“Excuse me?” 

“Anyway,” Morgana says again, “you should tell Merlin that you’re seeing Mordred before he finds out. I really don’t want a repeat performance of you two getting into a fistfight out on the roof.” 

“That’s ridiculous.” 

“I like Merlin. And you… are kind of okay, too. For an older brother. So please, just be civil about this whole thing.” 

“I’m perfectly civil. So is Merlin. We decided it was a bad idea. We broke it off.” 

“Yeah. Obviously, you’re both totally over that,” Morgana mutters sarcastically. “I just want you two to get along. It was horrible the first couple of weeks.” 

“I told you he’s annoying.” 

“That definitely makes two of you. Sadly, I have to live with both of you, so I feel like the injured party here.” 

Snorting, Arthur wipes a hand over his face. “You’re not disgusted?” he asks, unable to comprehend how Morgana can be so cool about it. 

“Eh…” she makes and grimaces, “a bit. But mostly because you’re my brother and the mere thought of you being involved with anyone makes me sick. It’s also disgusting that you’re such an idiot, obviously.” 

Arthur feels a laugh bubbling up inside of him and he gives in. “Thanks.” 

“So... Mordred,” she says and waggles her eyebrows at him. 

“I thought the idea of me being romantically involved with someone makes you sick?” 

“I need gossip material for when I see Gwen again.” 

“Nice try,” he grins, then slowly gets up. 

Morgana shrugs. “I’m just glad you’re getting that stick out of your ass. It was painful to watch.” 

Arthur decides to not comment on that, because people telling him he has a stick up his arse isn’t his favourite thing. When he reaches the door, something else comes to him, and he turns, looking back at Morgana, who has picked up her book again. 

“Morgana?” 

“Hmm?” She half-turns towards him, looking at him curiously.

“Will you sit for me? For a drawing?” 

She bites her lip, looking pleased. “Of course.” 

“Thanks.” 


	12. Part 1: 2014 - Chapter 12

The application deadline for the art school at Newcastle is rapidly approaching and the last weekend before Arthur has to send in his portfolio finds him in his room among heaps of drawings, unable to decide what to put into it. It’s the first deadline to creep up on him, those for Slade and Bournemouth just a couple of days after that. On Thursday he spent more than an hour going through his drawings with Mr. Woods, collecting his teacher’s valuable suggestions and Arthur thought afterwards that he would be fine, only for hesitation to come once again when he was attempting the finishing touches.

Right now, he questions his whole concept and it makes him panic, because he has compiled a video with Morgana’s help last weekend to include with his application in which he talks about his art and his inspiration.

He’s been sitting on the floor for the last three hours, his drawings spread out all around him as he tries to critically assess if he needs to scan or photograph another piece for his application. He has attempted to sort his art in piles from “certainly not” to “maybe” to “strong contender,” but he finds himself rethinking each and every piece, making it almost impossible to make a decision.

He’s about to give up and curl up in bed and possibly cry with frustration, when there’s a knock on the door and moments later, Merlin sticks his head inside.

“Have you seen my Dylan Thomas?” he asks, “I can’t find the book. I think I last read it in your room.”

Arthur blinks, for a moment overwhelmed with Merlin’s presence, and it gives Merlin time to take in the state of the room.

“Whoa,” he says and wrinkles his nose, “what happened in here?”

“Application deadline,” Arthur mutters, knowing he makes it sound like his death sentence.

“Oh,” Merlin breathes and bites his lip, his eyes sweeping the room and the chaos of papers, sketchbooks and post-it notes. He’s probably wondering how he’s supposed to find his book in that mess.

Arthur slowly gets up, wincing at how his joints ache from having knelt in one position for a very long time, and hobbles over to the bed, rummaging around in the pillows. He saw that book two nights ago, pushed between the mattress and the wall, but he had been too tired to pull it out. When he turns around, book in hand, Merlin has stepped into the room, carefully making his way around the piles of drawings, his eyes curiously sweeping over the papers.

“Here,” Arthur says and holds out the book, the memory of Merlin reading “In my craft or sullen art” to him, a poem that seems to befit Arthur’s current predicament, coming to him. They had been curled up in bed, the lamp from the nightstand casting a warm, yellow light over Merlin’s skin. Arthur remembers feeling content and sleepy, and when Merlin had finished reading, the book had been forgotten, probably finding its place between mattress and wall as Merlin had turned to kiss him.

The book is forgotten once more as Merlin kneels and starts to pick up drawings to hold up for his scrutiny. Arthur holds the book out to him a little longer, before tossing it onto the bedspread, feeling stupid.

“Is this me?” Merlin asks, mild surprise colouring his voice, and half-twists, holding up a drawing.

Arthur scrunches up his nose, irritated by how Merlin seems surprised that there exist drawings of him when he must have been present for their creation so many times. This particular drawing is of Merlin asleep, his head curled up in his arms, the long line of his back with its prominent knobs of spine giving way to the rise of his arse where it’s covered in Arthur’s Ikea cotton sheets, so maybe he really didn’t realise that Arthur was drawing him, though.

Arthur shrugs and Merlin’s mouth moves, like he wants to say something else, only to decide to stay silent instead. He puts the drawing down carefully, like he’s handling raw eggs, and picks up another.

“This is really great,” Merlin says, holding up another piece that shows the view from Arthur’s favourite window nook out onto the cobbled street.

“I can’t decide,” Arthur sighs and takes a step forward, folding his legs underneath him as he sits down on the hardwood floor next to Merlin.

“You want me to help you make a pick?” Merlin asks, and when he glances at Arthur, he looks soft and thoughtful. His messy hair is swept across his forehead and his eyes are a clear, soft blue, and looking at him makes Arthur’s heart ache.

Swallowing down the emotion, Arthur clears his throat and nods. “That would be great. I’ve looked through my stuff so many times now, I’ve lost any critical perspective I’ve ever had. It all just looks roughly the same to me right now.”

Merlin’s lips quirk and his eyes crinkle. “Maybe if you tell me about your concept, I can be your critical perspective?”

Arthur nods and looks away from the intensity of Merlin’s gaze as he reaches for his phone.

“I made a video where I talk about my concept and show some pieces. I figured that way, I can show and tell, instead of just sending in a couple of sentences.”

He thumbs through the gallery before finding the video Morgana shot with her phone and which Arthur has cut together on his laptop. They bend over the phone, Merlin a quiet, close presence over his shoulder. Arthur is painfully aware of Merlin’s even breath, unable to concentrate on his video, suffering in silent agony. He wonders if that’s how it’s going to be for the rest of their lives, Merlin just hovering at the edge of his awareness and Arthur noticing too much.

“This is great. But it needs some music during the slideshow of your art. If you send it to me, I’ll see what I can do and get back to you with suggestions,” Merlin offers after he has finished watching.

“I have to send it in on Wednesday.”

“That’s not a problem.” Merlin lets his eyes sweep over the chaos all around them. “How about we go about this systematically? Maybe you can show me what you have picked out already and then we can have a look at what still might be missing?”

Arthur nods and pulls up the google drive folder on his phone, where he saved his portfolio choices.

“I need about 15 to 20 pieces showcasing my drawing ability and understanding of material. But I’m stuck. You know how I explain about how a lot of my drawings are about human nature and that I’m interested in how man shapes his surroundings to reflect that nature. Now it feels like every piece I want to add to my portfolio has to correlate to this theme and it’s slowly driving me mad.”

Merlin snorts fondly. “You’re clearly overthinking this.”

“I know,” Arthur whines. “But I can’t help it. I’m really nervous about this. If I don’t get in…” he trails off, feeling helpless.

Merlin looks at him indulgently and smiles. “Let’s get to it, then, before you fall down the rabbit hole.” His voice is warm and instantly the knot in Arthur’s stomach loosens slightly.

“Right,” Arthur sighs, then reaches for the nearest pile of drawings and pulls it into his lap. “Just tell me what you think about these... “

Arthur is able to send in the portfolio just in time. He managed to compile eighteen art pieces that he hopes speak for his abilities and talent and together with the video that is now enhanced by Merlin’s music, he feels pretty confident about his application.

The moment he hits send on the application form, he feels the pressure of the last couple of weeks drop away. He gleefully watches as his laptop bings with the automated confirmation email from the registry page, then reads the automated message with a sigh of relief, nearly giddy. He has done it and all that is left to do now is wait.

The need to share his achievement is strong and the first person that comes to mind is Merlin, who’s spending the afternoon working at his uncle’s shop. He sends off a quick text and a thank you, but Merlin doesn’t answer right away, probably too busy to reply, so Arthur calls Mordred, needing to talk to someone or he will burst.

“I did it, I sent in my first application,” he says as a way of greeting.

“That’s brilliant,” Mordred says, and Arthur can hear the smile in his voice. “Hi Arthur!”

“Hi,” Arthur answers, and it comes out high, breathy and excited.

“Do you want to celebrate?” Mordred asks after just a beat.

“Oh God, yes,” Arthur mutters, and Mordred laughs, clearly amused by the relief in Arthur’s voice.

“Come over to mine? I have beer, and we can order food.”

Arthur hesitates for just a second, because there’s a part of him that can’t wait for Merlin to get home and talk to him in person. In the end he decides it’s much more feasible and less strenuous for his emotional welfare to see Mordred and invest in something that actually seems to be going somewhere. They’ve gone out two more times since their first date, despite how busy Arthur has been, but being with Mordred is surprisingly relaxing and low-key. Most of the time, they hang out, and it feels comfortable and easy.

Mordred lives in a student housing project in Whitechapel. It takes about an hour to get there by tube and Arthur spends the time to look up music on Spotify. He finds himself opening Merlin’s playlists in a fit of self-torture, puzzling over the names. Some are truly descriptive and he smiles when he sees one that is labelled “Driving up a mountain in Wales on a starlit night,” which sounds rather poetic. There are others, new rave compilations and slightly eclectic electro folk playlists and playlists with seemingly random songs with a title from possibly a song or poem. It feels like rifling through hidden partitions of Merlin’s brain, as if he were invading something private.

Arthur nearly misses his stop and hops out at the last moment, angry with himself for once more getting carried away. He’s here to see Mordred and enjoy Mordred’s uncomplicated presence, not dwell on everything that’s a little bit fucked up in his life.

Mordred proves to be once more the distraction Arthur needs. They hang out in Mordred’s tiny student room and Arthur shows Mordred everything he has sent in, including the video. They drink beer and order pizza. They talk about Mordred’s latest school paper and what they plan to do over the Christmas holidays. Mordred seems to instantly know what Arthur needs right now, mainly to calm down from the last stressful weeks and Arthur is insanely grateful for his camaraderie and uncomplicated companionship.

At one point, Mordred stops talking and contemplates Arthur for a long moment, before he leans over and presses a kiss to Arthur’s lips. It’s brief and not entirely unexpected, and when Mordred moves in again, Arthur kisses back. Mordred kisses with precision, tilts his head carefully and presses forward. When Arthur parts his lips, Mordred slips his tongue inside his mouth, but he’s not playful about it as he searches out Arthur’s. It helps that Mordred kisses nothing like Merlin, that he’s determined and meticulous where Merlin was sloppy and wet and noisy, hard and to the point where Merlin licked into his mouth softly.

They make out for a long time, but Arthur’s not ready to go any further, keeping his hands carefully above the waistline and Mordred follows his lead, respecting his unspoken limitations. He’s so considerate that Arthur feels a little bit guilty about how he’s not getting carried away. He had expected to be swept away with lust the moment Mordred kissed him, but it’s not happening, not right now anyway, not like when Merlin puts his hands on him and he forgets to fucking think.

Maybe, Arthur thinks, he just needs time. Time to forget about Merlin and his stupid lush mouth, long fingers and hoarse groans.

He’s willing to give it time, to invest in this thing with Mordred. It feels like the right thing to do.

It’s three days before Christmas on a Friday night when Merlin barges into the living room, wrapped up in his coat and a scarf haphazardly slung around his neck, looking cold and mad. He steps up to where Arthur is reclining on the couch, practically vibrating with fury.

“You’re going out with Mordred?!” he roars, and he’s livid, his voice hoarse and eyes stormy.

“Uh-oh,” Morgana whistles from where she’s sitting in the window nook with her phone. “I told you you should have told him,” she says, rolling her eyes at Arthur.

Merlin spares her a brief, disbelieving and withering glance as he seems to only now realise she’s in the room, and Morgana’s eyes widen. “I’m off. Please, don’t kill each other,” she says, then hops from her seat and scampers off with a last, worried glance over her shoulder, leaving them alone in the living room.

Arthur pauses the game he’s playing on the PS4 and drops the controller in his lap. He bites his lip, taking in Merlin’s furious face, the twin splotches of red on his cheeks, the way his fists are curled up at his side.

“Uhmmm… yes,” he says slowly, wincing at the dark expression on Merlin’s face.

His answer makes Merlin take a step back, like he didn’t expect Arthur to just admit it or that maybe Arthur would tell him he got it wrong, and the stormy cloud on Merlin’s face makes way for a look of complete fury.

“I came into band practice today and he was telling everyone about how you guys went to the cinema and snogged in the back row!” it bursts out of Merlin, shaky and outraged. “I felt like a fucking idiot not knowing what was going on!”

Arthur feels his fingers tremble slightly at the force of Merlin’s anger directed at him, but he pushes the controller aside and gets up, taking a careful step towards Merlin as if he were a frightened animal. Merlin’s yelling, everyone’s at home, and Arthur just wants him to shut up.

“Let’s not do this here,” he says carefully, softly and holds up his hands, but Merlin isn’t finished.

“They were congratulating him and asking him whether you were already at third base!”

“Oh God, please shut up!” Arthur says, mortified, feeling a headache coming on.

“Uggghhh!” Merlin growls out angrily and frustrated and threads his fingers through his hair.

“It’s none of their business. Come to think of it, it’s none of your business, either,” Arthur groans and kneads the bridge of his nose.

“He’s in my band! It is my fucking business!” Merlin says heatedly, flinging out his arm in a gesture of disbelief. “Fuck, why does it have to be Mordred, anyway? You could like… date anyone!”

“I realise you don’t like him much-”

“Why… Mordred? Why does it have to be one of my bandmates?” Merlin grinds out between clenched teeth, glaring at Arthur like he’s committing an unspeakable sin and something in Arthur feels so wrongly accused by Merlin’s ridiculous anger, that he snaps.

“Because he’s nice and kind and he doesn’t just want a casual fuck!” he bellows, watching as his words make Merlin flinch, as if Arthur delivered a particularly nasty blow.

They ring in the silence that ensues.

Merlin’s face goes through a complicated succession of emotions before he says tightly, “Right.” He sounds tired now, his anger diminished by a look of hurt that Arthur finds displaced, considering that Merlin has no right to stake a claim.

“What the hell is it to you?” Arthur yells, fuming. “You should be happy! Isn't this what you wanted?"

At that Merlin just stares at him, his eyebrows raised like he can’t believe Arthur.

Arthur takes a step forward, crowding into Merlin’s space, upset and confused. “You fucking walked out on me!”

Merlin doesn’t debate that, but he holds Arthur’s eyes, unflinching, his mouth pressed into a thin line, eyebrows drawn together.

“Mordred’s in my band,” he says darkly, like that explains everything.

“You said that before, so fucking what?! It’s none of your business what I do or who I see or-”

“What the hell is going on,” his father's steely voice cuts through his sentence and startles Arthur so badly that he jumps back, nearly tripping over his own feet.

It takes Arthur a beat to recover, before he says hastily “Nothing!” about the same time Merlin sullenly utters the same word.

The glare Merlin sends his way is nothing compared to the stony irritation on his father’s face. Arthur bites his lip and breathes in deeply through his nose, his heart pounding. He’s almost relieved when he sees Hunith step up towards Uther from behind, placing a calming hand on his shoulder.

“Who is Mordred?” Uther asks and Arthur sucks in a quick breath. He wasn’t sure how much Uther heard, but apparently, he heard this at least.

When nobody answers, Hunith does. “A friend of Merlin’s.”

“He’s not my friend!” Merlin snarls scathingly and hurt, like he can’t help himself. He looks aghast at his own reaction, eyes nervous as he glances over at Arthur.

There’s a brief moment where Uther opens his mouth to ask another question, but he doesn’t get to say it, because the next words coming out of Arthur’s mouth stop him.

“He’s my boyfriend.”

Apparently, surprising his father has become a thing Arthur is quite good at, because Uther just snaps his mouth shut and blinks, startled. Arthur watches Hunith’s hand tighten on Uther’s shoulder, her thumb stroking the fabric of his shirt. It strikes him how well she seems to know her husband already, for all that they have been together for such a short time.

When Arthur dares take his eyes off his father and look over at Merlin, Merlin is standing there with his hands hanging limply by his side, his mouth pulled into a pained frown, the corner’s of his mouth twitching, tense.

“Mordred’s my boyfriend,” Arthur repeats and watches how Merlin’s face turns even more pinched and shuttered.

“Okay,” Uther says, almost tonelessly, and when Arthur twists to look at his father, Uther just turns and leaves, walking out of the living room.

In his place, Hunith is left standing alone in the doorframe, looking disappointed and frustrated, her eyes firmly on her son. She doesn’t say anything for a long moment, but her furious gaze speaks volumes. “You!” she finally snaps sharply and points her finger at Merlin, “we’re going to have a serious talk later, mister, just so you are aware.”

Her face is a complicated mask of anger and pity, and she gives her son another frustrated, disbelieving glare, before she turns around, following after her husband.

Behind Arthur, Merlin makes a huffing sound, a kind of breathy sniffle where he sucks in breath, and when Arthur turns around, Merlin is staring at his feet, his bottom lip tucked between his teeth, looking defeated and as if he’s five years old.

“Fuck,” Arthur says darkly and shakes his head, feeling so angry with Merlin that he doesn’t know what else to say. “Fuck!” he exclaims again, louder this time.

Merlin doesn’t reply, doesn’t look at him, so Arthur sniffs disdainfully and walks out, pounding up the stairs to his room to curl up in his bed and tries to forget about everything.

The couple of days leading up to Christmas are strange and uncomfortable and there’s no denying the issue is the giant pink elephant in the room.

Uther isn’t talking to him - again - which is becoming a bit of a theme for whenever Arthur reveals something his father has to work through. Additionally, the mood between Hunith and Merlin is awkward at best. They shuffle around each other, sending each other furtive glances. Merlin wears a perpetual expression of badly-concealed shame whenever his mother looks his way, while Hunith seems to waver between exasperated frustration and pity. Arthur hasn’t been privy to their talk, but he can guess what it has been about and he knows that Hunith knows he’s been sleeping with her son. It makes him avoid her eyes whenever she glances his way, feeling like he failed her somehow, or maybe disrespected her trust. He suspects that Uther knows, too, which makes him feel all kinds of sick. It’s better not to think too much about it.

To top that off, Merlin has been moping around the house whenever he’s been home, looking traumatized and pale, bruises underneath his eyes, showing his lack of sleep. He flinches whenever Arthur looks his way and averts his eyes, the tips of his ears turning crimson.

On Christmas Eve, Arthur returns from a trip to Fortnum & Mason for Christmas Day dinner to find Hunith, Morgana and Merlin in the kitchen, baking sugar biscuits and listening to kitschy Christmas music on the radio.

The house smells sweet, like sugar, cinnamon and cloves, and when Arthur walks into the kitchen it looks like a battlefield. Flour covers almost every surface and in between are racks of cut out biscuits, cooling. Morgana is already decorating biscuits, while Merlin is mixing more icing.

Arthur heaves the turkey into the fridge, placing it carefully on the emptied rack on the bottom of the fridge. As usual at Christmas, their fridge is stuffed to the brim, filled with food and condiments and bottles, but this year, with two more people around, it’s practically bursting.

The mood in the kitchen is surprisingly relaxed, considering everyone’s still uncomfortable from the fallout of three days ago. Morgana is humming along to The Pogues, deeply focused as she bends over her work, while Hunith puts another rack of biscuits into the oven, her brown hair up in a pony tail making her look almost like she’s not much older than Morgana. Merlin has a towel slung like a makeshift apron around his waist, the sleeves of his dark-green knitted christmas jumper pushed up to his forearms. There’s icing caked in his dark hair, and when he brushes away his bangs, he manages to smear more into it.

Arthur snatches a freshly iced biscuit from Morgana’s rack, grinning when she howls indignantly.

“How about you help then?” she says challengingly and presses a plastic bag filled with red icing into his hands. “You’re the artist, after all. Paint those biscuits!”

Arthur grins widely at her suggestion, knowing there’s probably green and red icing coating his teeth. He takes the bag from her hands and starts on the cookies. It takes a little bit of practice to get the pressure on the bag just right, but his hand is much steadier than Morgana’s and he’s happy to see that his lines come out significantly less wobbly.

They are working in silence apart from the occasional humming and it’s much nicer than Arthur could have hoped for. He can’t remember the last time they baked biscuits in this house. Usually, Uther just got some from the Christmas market in Hyde Park together with the bottle of ready made Wassailing. The house too, feels so different this year around. There are decorations up in almost every room of the house, tinsel wrapped around the wooden staircase, stockings on the fireplace, a wreath on the front door. The Christmas tree is enormous this year, hung with decorations from both their attic and the boxes of Christmas decorations Hunith brought with her.

He finishes with the icing and goes over to where Merlin is filling more bags with icing. Arthur reaches for a filled bag just when Merlin places one down and their hands bump causing one of the icing bags to spill onto the counter.

“Sorry,” Merlin mumbles and they both reach for it, only to bump hands again. He’s blushing and fidgeting, and it is so un-Merlin-like that Arthur’s eyes are drawn to Merlin’s face again, curiously watching the red creep up on Merlin’s cheek until he looks almost feverish. Gone is the easy camaraderie, the way he felt so comfortable with Merlin beside him, as if he were an extension of himself. Besides, Arthur is still not okay with how things came to a head three days ago. He’s still unbearably angry with Merlin. Arthur is acutely aware of Hunith’s presence in the room, frantically wondering what she is thinking about all this, if she notices their awkward fumbling, the strange tension. He feels dirty just standing there, allowing their forearms to brush together, knowing that she is aware of what happened between them.

The memory of Merlin in his arms feels unreal, the crazed, intimate things they did with each other suddenly seem impossible.

Their forearms brush again, Merlin’s skin warm against his, the little hairs on his arms almost electric. The shiver that travels through Arthur sets his body alight and he grabs for the icing and steps away hastily.

“Thanks,” he mutters and flees back towards the cooling racks. His hands are shaking now when he applies the icing and he knows his face is heated, too. Decorating the biscuits is a good distraction, though, and he manages to calm down, careful not to look at what Merlin is doing. He hears him move around behind him, talk to his mother and wash the dishes.

Arthur is almost finished when Uther comes home from the office. His father looks around the kitchen with his eyebrows raised high, but there’s a small smile when he steps forward, places a hand on Hunith’s waist and kisses her cheek. Morgana bounds up to him and offers him a biscuit, and it’s all so very domestic, that for a moment, Arthur forgets the whole awkward business of effectively having been caught sleeping with his step-brother.

It’s only when Uther’s gaze travels over him that he remembers and he ducks his head, unable to meet his father’s eyes. He finishes icing the rest of the biscuits before retreating upstairs to take a shower before dinner, the previously semi-comfortable mood in the kitchen is gone.

He’s surprised when there’s a knock on the door just before dinner and Merlin sticks his head inside, looking shifty and nervous.

“Arthur?” he asks uncertainly, as if knowing he is the last person Arthur wants to see. He doesn’t wait for a reply though but steps inside, pushing the door shut quietly behind him.

“What?” Arthur can’t help the way the word comes out, frustrated and resentful.

Merlin swallows, looks at his feet, then up again, a kicked-puppy look on his face that strangely enough makes Arthur feel better. “I’m sorry.”

“You outed me to my father,” Arthur says, surprised how he sounds cold and bitter. It’s technically not true - the last words were Arthur’s, his decision to barge straight ahead, to fight not seek flight, his own.

Merlin flinches and sucks in a breath, hand coming up to rub at his cheek. “I know,” he moans. “I know, and I’m sorry.”

“Okay,” Arthur says, but it’s not, not really.

“I had no right,” Merlin says. “I was just so…” he trails off, not finishing the sentence, looking helplessly at a spot over Arthur’s shoulder. “Sometimes,” he says, that faraway look staying in his eyes, “sometimes I just can’t help myself. I say and do stuff… and I regret it later. I…” he bites his lip and rolls his eyes at himself, “... I’m so sorry.”

With surprise, Arthur notes that his eyes look feverish.

“At least it’s out now. Like ripping off a plaster,” he offers, his anger diminishing a bit confronted by the real anguish on Merlin’s face.

“What a plaster,” Merlin says quietly, sadly.

“Yes.”

Merlin isn’t saying anything else, once more staring at his feet and Arthur wants this moment to end. For all that he’s frustrated with Merlin, he doesn’t want to see him looking like this: pale and guilty.

“Thanks. For … you know… apologising.”

Merlin shakes his head, his mouth twitching. “I don’t know how to put it right again.”

“Maybe there’s nothing to put right, Merlin,” Arthur suggests, tired of the discussion.

“Maybe,” Merlin echoes. He fidgets by the door, then takes a step towards it. “Dinner is in ten minutes,” he says, as an afterthought.

“Okay.”

Arthur watches as Merlin slinks out the room, exiting it just as quietly as he entered. His chest feels tight and painful and he releases a shuddering breath. He wants so badly to go after him, to pull him into his arms, feel Merlin’s gangly frame so familiar against him.

At the same time he feels like it would be the worst idea. Things have come to a head and they are moving past it. It’s for the best.

Christmas is family time for the Pendragons, something that not even the untimely death of Ygraine could change. Still, this year is different.

Christmas Day itself turns out to be surprisingly nice. Arthur wakes around 10 a.m. in time for Christmas Day breakfast which turns out to be a lavish feast of fresh scones, vegetable omelette, salmon and roast beets, pumpkin muffins and champagne. He thinks back on last year’s Christmas Day breakfast, a simple fare of sausage and eggs in the hole and definitely thinks the upgrade was for the better.

The turkey is already in the oven, the rest of the food was prepared yesterday. After breakfast they go for a walk before attending Evensong, then return home for presents and dinner. Merlin’s great Uncle Gaius joins them for dinner. The day isn’t remarkable because of how they are doing what they are doing every year, but because their home is filled with so much activity and warmth. Hunith and Merlin have brought a liveliness that has been absent for the last several years. It’s little details, but together they make this Christmas more special than the ones before.

There are crackers on the table and even Uther wears a silly paper hat. Hunith has given out hand-knitted Christmas sweaters just like the one Merlin was wearing yesterday, and while they are scratchy and hideous, the fact that they all wear them makes it somehow okay. Merlin has brought down one of his keyboards - the aptly named Millenium Falcon - and they gather around the tree and sing carols, which apparently is a huge thing for Hunith and Merlin, but just leads to embarrassment because all of the Pendragons are practically tone deaf.

Once that ordeal is over, they exchange presents in front of the tree.

Arthur is surprised to find a Derwent Procolor 72-pencil wooden box, some sketchbooks and a drawing wallet among his presents, and when he looks to his father, Uther just nods. It’s a thoughtful present and an acknowledgement, and Arthur can’t hide his pleasure as he starts unwrapping the sketchbooks, fingers sliding over the fine drawing paper.

What is even better is the look on Uther’s face when he unwraps Arthur’s present. He goes still for a very long moment and just stares, and Arthur gets so nervous that he can’t help himself from fidgeting. When Uther looks up from the framed drawing of Arthur’s mother, he looks soft and sad, but he comes over and gives Arthur a hug, and Arthur closes his eyes, breathes in his father’s familiar aftershave and relaxes.

They haven’t talked about what happened and Arthur thinks that maybe, they never will, but he knows at this moment, that it’s going to be alright in the long run.

Later, they sit in the living room, sprawled on the couches and armchairs, a Christmas movie playing on tv while they sip mulled wine and eat biscuits. Hunith and Uther are wrapped up on the chaise lounge, looking cozy and content. Uncle Gaius has fallen asleep on the couch, snoring slightly with his mouth open and nostrils flaring. Morgana is sitting at Uther’s feet cross-legged with a plate of biscuits on her lap - Arthur suspects she will feel horrible tomorrow from eating all that sugar. Merlin is fiddling with his new laptop sprawled in an armchair with his legs dangling over the side, installing programs and setting up directories, a frown of concentration on his face.

Arthur picks out a sketch pencil, opens to a fresh page in one of his new sketchbooks and starts sketching them, surprised by the fondness he feels for them all.

On New Year’s Eve Hunith and Uther leave for a party at Uther’s company headquarters, while Arthur, Morgana and Merlin are allowed to invite friends over - within certain limitations.

“Bedrooms are no-go-zones,” Hunith reminds them as she pulls on her coat.

“So is my office,” Uther adds, struggling with the leather gloves he tries to pull on.

“We get it,” Merlin says, sounding long-suffering.

“But that’s just for our friends, right? We can use our bedrooms?” Morgana asks cheekily, and Merlin snorts and shoots her a glance that clearly indicates how much he appreciates her wicked humour.

Neither Uther nor Hunith deem her witticism something to reply to, but Uther’s glare is withering. They both look like they want to say something to that, but ultimately decide against it.

“Just make sure no one is having unprotected sex or vomits on the upholstery,” Hunith says sternly, wrapping a scarf around her neck. “And no drugs.”

“We are concerned about drugs?” Uther asks, looking at Hunith with a surprised air, his eyebrows shooting up.

“We are _not_ concerned about drugs,” she says firmly and with a brief side-glance at Merlin.

“No sex, no drugs, no vomiting,” Arthur confirms, and opens the front door, letting a gust of cold wind inside, hoping their parents will finally leave for good without further instructions and prohibitive rules for the evening. Gwen is supposed to be here in twenty minutes with her equipment, and he wants them gone by then.

“Sounds good,” Hunith confirms, but she gets Arthur’s subtle hint and reaches for her husband’s arm. “We’ll be back around three. I’m calling ahead, because I’m a nice person and because I want to come home to a house that hasn’t completely descended into chaos.” There’s a meaningful glance at Merlin at these words like there is history there, and he rolls his eyes, albeit fondly.

“Leave, please,” Merlin says with enduring annoyance and pushes at his mother’s shoulder, gently turning her towards the door.

Once the front door closes behind them, Morgana lets out a whooping breath. “Thank God.” She is practically bouncing up and down, so excited she can’t stay still for even a minute.

Together, the three of them put out the snacks and drinks, and when Gwen arrives thirty minutes later, they are all set up for the party. It’s slow going for a bit with just a few early-birds trickling in, but around 9.30 a swarm of people arrive at the same time and from there on out, the party is going strong.

Mordred arrives at 10.30 with several cases of beer. When he spots Arthur in the living room, he grins and pulls him into a kiss, like it’s a thing they just do. Blushing, Arthur realises that it probably is and that Mordred has no reason to believe they shouldn’t show affection in public. He returns the kiss stiffly, feeling his friends watching with probably stunned expressions on their faces. What a way to come out.

There’s whistling and clapping and it’s all very public and Arthur wants to sink into the ground with mortification, while Mordred looks around, a confused frown on his face. “What did I do wrong?” he asks worriedly, and now it’s his face turning crimson. He looks adorably baffled, watching how Arthur’s friends are reacting to his greeting.

“Nothing,” Arthur says and decides to hell with it, and leans in to kiss Mordred again. In for a penny, in for a pound. Mordred still looks a bit unsure, but gets with the program easily, his arm sliding around Arthur’s shoulder and staying there, long after their lips have parted.

The main party is in the living room where they have pushed aside the furniture to make room for dancing. People are milling around on the couches and armchairs and Gwen has set up her DJ set near the window. Morgana is at her side, sipping steadily from a cup of what Arthur hopes is watered down wine, all the while watching with admiration as Gwen selects music from her laptop and works with the soundboard.

It’s a good party and nobody vomits on the furniture or carpets, although there’s some spillage of drinks, a framed photo falls off the wall and two of Morgana’s friends get into a fight over a boy.

Arthur is careful not to drink too much in order to stay on top of things. Next to him, Mordred is showing Elyan and Lance photos of their last gig on his phone, a broad smile on his face as he talks. He has a hand casually on Arthur’s thigh like it belongs there, and once in a while, his fingers will twitch and apply pressure. It’s a strange sensation and Mordred’s casual possessiveness makes Arthur feel flustered. It’s weird - this is what he wanted, to come out to his friends on his own terms with a cute boyfriend in tow, so nobody would feel sad for him, but it doesn’t feel right.

He looks around, wondering if any of his friends are taking note, if they glance his way and look puzzled. He figures he has some grovelling and explaining to do in the near future.

The only person who stares at him is Merlin. He’s sitting across the room in the window nook with his legs pulled up, arms wrapped around his knees, a half-empty bottle of beer dangling from his fingers, his mouth pinched, face dark. He doesn’t look away when Arthur notices him glaring, but his eyes narrow and his glower intensifies.

Arthur feels anger well up in him, because Merlin has no right to glare at him like that and he has no reason at all to be cross with him, just because he is here with another boy. Merlin very clearly and repeatedly expressed that they had no claim on each other, that everything they did was casual. He had no right.

Frustrated, Arthur pushes himself up from the couch abruptly, Mordred’s hand dropping from his knee as he stands up.

“Something wrong?” Mordred asks, looking up at him curiously and with concern.

“No,” Arthur mutters. “Just… the snacks are out. I’m going downstairs to get some more.”

“Alright.” Mordred gives him another one of his soft smiles. He looks like he knows something is wrong but he won’t pressure Arthur, then lowers his gaze and gets back to thumbing through his phone pics with Elyan.

Arthur can’t help but glare in Merlin’s direction, before making this way through the thong of dancing people in the living room. He stomps downstairs towards the kitchen, having to zigzag through a cluster of people sitting on the narrow stairs.

“Arthur! Wait!” Elena’s voice calls to him and a light weight lands on his arm, pulling him down.

She’s sitting at the bottom of the stairs with Mithian, her hand warm on his shirtsleeve, looking up at him with a small smile.

“Where’re you going?”

“Kitchen. To get more snacks,” he explains, but when she tugs on his arm some more, he lets himself be pulled to sit next to her on the steps.

Elena smiles again, but there’s an air of embarrassment about her as she looks at him. “I should probably apologise,” she says softly. “I shouldn’t have tried to set you up with girls all the time.”

She still looks a little abashed, her cheeks growing red, but she holds his gaze.

“No.” Arthur exhales a sigh and reaches for her hand, gripping it gently and giving her fingers a reassuring squeeze. “Actually, … I should apologise. I should have told you and spared you the trouble. It was very kind what you were trying to do.”

“I feel like an insensitive idiot,” Elena mutters and rolls her eyes self-deprecatingly.

Arthur groans at her words. “God, no. Please, don’t feel bad about it! I’m the idiot here and the whole joke’s on me.”

“Arthur, seriously, why didn’t you tell us? I could have set you up with the cutest blokes. My cousin is seriously brilliant and also bisexual.”

She winks at him, and Arthur snorts out a laugh, before growing serious again. “I don’t know. I was an idiot. I thought… you might pity me even more. For being lonely AND gay.”

At that, Elena guffers out laughter, snorting in that loud, slightly obnoxious but endearing way of hers. “You _are_ an idiot,” she finally says fondly. “Also, your boyfriend is pretty hot.”

“Right?” Arthur says, but it doesn’t come out as teasing as he wants to make the word sound.

“If it doesn’t work out, I’m matchmaking you with Owen, though,” Elena says mock-threateningly.

“Oh God, I knew it wouldn’t stop you.”

“Never! It’s my mission!”

Arthur gives a put-upon sigh that makes Elena giggle, then slowly pushes himself up. “I should really get those snacks before there’s a riot upstairs.”

“Drop a bag of crisps on your way back, will you?” Mithian asks, and Arthur nods. There’s enough snacks on the table upstairs, but if he comes back up without getting some, Mordred will know that there’s something wrong.

Arthur nods, then proceeds to the kitchen. It’s quiet and dark, especially compared to the thumping bass and noises coming from upstairs and he takes a moment to gather his thoughts, before opening the cupboard to grab some crisps.

He startles when he hears steps behind him on the tiled floor and nearly knocks his head on the open cupboard door when he straightens from his hunched over position.

“Ow,” he curses, his hands automatically coming up to rub his temple as he turns to see who entered the kitchen. It’s the last person he expected.

“Having fun?” Merlin asks, and he sounds a little mad and there’s still that dark glare on his face, his blue eyes blazing.

“Are you going to be like this whenever he’s around?” Arthur returns, finding Merlin’s angry petulance extraordinarily aggravating.

Merlin’s mouth works, like he wants to say something but at the last moment bites back the words. He’s practically radiating tension and the air between them feels charged and thick.

The silence goes on and on, and Merlin’s face still looks thunderous and pinched at the same time. The moment becomes unbearable and Arthur takes a deep breath and attempts to de-escalate. “Look-”

“I don’t want you to date him,” Merlin bursts out and takes a step forward until he’s just an arm’s reach away from Arthur. It makes Arthur feel cornered and he leans back against the cupboards, his fingers curling around the counter’s edge.

“Yeah, it’s quite apparent that you don’t like him,” Arthur says, feeling suddenly breathless. Merlin is standing so close and looking at him with such intensity that his knees feel weak all of a sudden.

“No,” Merlin mutters, shaking his head and frowning at Arthur, his lips pursing, “you don’t understand. I can’t watch you date him.”

Arthur carefully tries to relax his body, but Merlin’s stance stays tense and coiled, like he’s priming for a fight. “I’m sorry, but you’ll have to deal with him.”

“Because he’s your _boyfriend_.” Merlin utters the word like it’s something particularly dirty.

“Yes.”

More silence follows and Arthur fidgets under Merlin’s stare, wondering if he might just turn his back and grab some snacks and get out of here, but then Merlin speaks again, only this time he sounds less angry and more despondent.

“I hate that he touches you.”

His low words make a shiver run through Arthur’s body, similar to how his body used to twitch whenever Merlin said something particularly dirty in bed. Merlin watches his reaction and his eyes soften.

“Merlin...” Arthur says warningly, because he can feel the mood shift, feel the mad pull curling low in his stomach.

Merlin licks his lips and his gaze flicks from Arthur’s eyes to his mouth and back up and then back down. “I don’t like him touching you…” he mutters again, but he sounds distracted, eyes firmly on Arthur’s parted mouth now.

Arthur exhales shakily, in need to say something, stop this, but the next moment, Merlin has surged forward and fisted his hands in his shirt and pressed their mouths together. Against Arthur’s lips, Merlin is panting, his kiss hard and full of desperation. Merlin crowds him back against the counter, body heated and hard where they align.

Breath rushes out of Arthur and his body reacts instantly, like someone injected him with a drug. His head swims dizzily and his toes curl and Merlin’s wet mouth and tongue make him feel weak. There’s the rush again, this crazy surge of want and lust and he doesn’t understand how he can feel this way with Merlin and not with Mordred, who genuinely wants to be with him.

Arthur’s fingers curl in Merlin’s shirt and he finds himself responding, licking the moans from Merlin’s mouth, hears his own breathing, noisy and wet. Merlin’s lips feel perfect, soft and moist and Merlin’s hands on him are frantic, pushing at the fabric of his t-shirt, bunching it up as he pushes a knee between Arthur’s thighs.

Arthur’s mind supplies him with a selection of possibilities, of images. He wants Merlin to lift him up on the counter and fuck him right here in the kitchen. He wants to listen to Merlin’s grunts and dirty words and watch his face as he chases his pleasure. He wants Merlin’s hands on his body. He wants Merlin’s cock in him. He wants Merlin’s sloppy kisses on his shoulders and neck and his praise whispered against his ear. He wants Merlin’s orgasm even more than he wants his own.

The fantasy only lasts a couple of seconds before reality comes crashing down on him. He’s standing in his own kitchen snogging Merlin, with anyone possibly coming into it at any moment now and there’s a house full of people and his boyfriend upstairs.

Mordred. Jesus, Mordred.

“Stop…” Arthur moans, frantically pushing at Merlin’s shoulder, pressing him away. “Just… stop.”

It takes Merlin a couple of seconds to get with the program and when he blinks open his eyes, he looks confused and ravaged. His panting breath hits Arthur’s face, his cheeks are flushed, eyes glassy.

“Please, don’t make me be the guy who cheats on his boyfriend,” Arthur whispers, carefully pushing Merlin back, hands on Merlin’s shoulders applying pressure until Merlin relents. Arthur breathes a sigh of relief when Merlin stands at arm’s length. They are both trembling, panting harshly.

Merlin’s face crumbles all of a sudden and he looks horrified. “I’m sorry,” he mutters, hands coming up to grind the heels of his palms against his eyes, before he twists his fingers in his hair. “I’m so fucking sorry,” he says again, looking positively stricken.

For a while they stand there in silence, trying to catch their breaths. Arthur’s mouth tingles where moments before, Merlin pressed his lips. He can still taste Merlin on his tongue, that familiar spicy taste that never fails to arouse him. Merlin slowly lowers his hands, his face blotchy.

“What do you want from me?” Arthur says, and he knows he sounds exasperated and confused. “What is it?” He wants Merlin to say something, something outrageous and wonderful and crazy. For Merlin to admit that he needs him, that he wants to be with him, that Arthur should ditch Mordred and damn the consequences.

Merlin gapes, appearing genuinely overwhelmed by the question and he bites his lip and frowns as he stares at Arthur.

When he doesn’t answer, Arthur breathes out in frustration. “Because you’re not making sense! You said you don’t want to do this but then you go and get crazy mad when I see Mordred and you practically assault me in the kitchen and you-” Arthur throws his hands up, at a loss for words.

Merlin opens his mouth as if to speak, then snaps it shut again. “I don’t know…” he finally says and it comes out bewildered and sad. “I don’t know.”

“Fuck,” Arthur groans out. “Just… I don’t want to do this anymore!” He indicates the space between them. “I don’t want this anymore!”

Merlin flinches at his words and looks down at his toes, exhaling a shaky breath.

“So please, back off. I want to be with someone who wants to be with me, and that’s obviously not you, so…”

Merlin heaves out another sigh, a pained, raw sound, and then he says tightly, “Okay.”

He turns then and starts walking out of the kitchen, leaving Arthur too stunned by his reaction to do anything but catch his breath. When he finally moves, he almost slithers around the corner in his stockinged feet in his haste to go after Merlin.

In the hallway, Merlin is shoving his feet into his boots and struggles with his coat.

“... the fuck are you going?” Arthur asks, watching as Merlin reaches for a scarf that Merlin is quite sure is actually one of Uther’s.

“Out,” Merlin says shortly and clipped and slings the red scarf around his neck.

“It’s almost midnight!”

Merlin just gives him an unimpressed look, then opens the door and slips outside, letting the door fall shut behind him.

Stunned, Arthur watches the closed door for a moment, aware of how there are people behind him on the staircase, wondering what that was all about. He should be lucky nobody came into the kitchen.

He bites back a groan, then slinks back to the kitchen to grab a couple of bags of crisps and a tin of shelled peanuts. He doesn’t answer Elena’s curious gaze and just tosses a bag of vinegar crisps into Mithian’s lap, before walking back upstairs.

In the living room, the party has gone on without him, but he finds Mordred still where he left him. Arthur distributes the snacks on the table, before sitting down into his earlier spot next to Mordred.

Mordred turns to smile at him when he sits down. “Hey, everything all right?” he asks with his usual observance, and Arthur wonders if his face is still showing signs of his frustration.

“Yes. Just a stupid fight with Merlin.”

Mordred looks sympathetic. “Your brother is aggravating.”

Arthur hums in agreement and Mordred leans in and presses a long, lingering kiss to his lips. “Don’t let him spoil your night.”

Mordred’s lips are dry and soft and with defeat, Arthur notices that they don’t make him feel much of anything, certainly not the crazy storm of mindless want he felt just earlier with Merlin in the kitchen. He tries to replicate his earlier fantasy and casts Mordred in Merlin’s role, only he can’t imagine Mordred fucking him on the kitchen counter at all.

There’s laughter from next to them and when Arthur pulls back, Elyan is grinning and pointing over towards the turn tables. “Oh my God, there’s a new DJ in the house!” he says and whoops, and when Arthur follows his gaze, there’s Morgana standing at the laptop, a concentrated but delighted frown on her face as she mans the laptop and soundpult, headphones pressed over her dark hair. Next to her, Gwen looks like a proud mother-hen, pointing out things to her and beaming.

Arthur feels another surge of affection towards his sister, enjoying the way her face is so full of joy and concentration. He wants her to always look like this.

“She’s doing a good job,” Mordred says appreciatively and Arthur nods.

He turns to watch Mordred, taking in the way he so often wears a smile on his lips, his soft brown curls and bluish-green eyes, his caring personality and feels defeated. He wants to feel things for Mordred, because Mordred is perfect, but there’s just nothing there other than a very superficial affection for someone who is very likeable. He doesn’t understand his own heart, aching because Merlin doesn’t want him the way he wants him. How can his heart feel this way about Merlin but not about Mordred?

Arthur takes a sip from his beer and tries not to think of Merlin, walking out there somewhere, angry and probably cold, ten minutes to midnight on New Year’s Eve.

Midnight comes and they cheer and toast each other and open bottles of cheap champagne nobody likes (but sometimes it’s all about playing being grown-ups) and Arthur kisses Mordred at midnight and doesn’t feel anything again and wishes it was Merlin here with him instead.

He breaks up with Mordred two weeks later.

**END OF PART 1**


	13. Part 2: 2019 - Chapter 1

# Five years later...

Merlin wakes to a jostle to his side, sun in his face and Will’s loud and obnoxious voice in his ears. 

“Emrys!”

Grunting, Merlin reaches up and shields his eyes with his hand against the persistent ray of sunshine stinging his eyes, turning to face the back of the couch and get away from Will’s rude attempt to wake him.

“Emrys!” Will says again and he sounds frustrated and put-upon. “Merlin! You need to get up. Freya is coming over later and you have to be gone by then!” Another kick follows Will’s words, and this one hurts, because he manages to hit Merlin’s kidneys. 

With a groan, Merlin shifts on the couch once more, but now there’s no chance that he’ll be going back to sleep. He sucks in a breath and slowly opens his eyes, staring at his friend’s exasperated face in his field of vision. 

“C’mon, mate. My girlfriend’s coming over and I. want. to. be. alone. with. her,” Will carefully enunciates, his eyes wide and imploring, like it is something he needs to convey to Merlin and Merlin is a complete idiot and unable to detect subtlety. 

“A’right,” Merlin sighs and pushes slowly up from the couch. He winces at the twinge he feels in his lower back and the persistent kink in his neck that has been plaguing him for almost a week now. The springs of Will’s old worn-out couch are a menace and the thing always smells a bit dodgy, but it’s something of a trusted friend, always there when he needs it. 

He swings his legs over the edge of the couch, groaning at the brief feeling of vertigo when he sits up. His head is pounding a bit, but the longer he sits still, the more the pounding lessens and when he finally heaves himself up, it’s almost gone. He pads over to Will’s kitchenette and takes out a carton of oat milk, then grabs a bowl from the shelf and staggers towards Will’s rickety table. He plunks down in a chair with a moan, then grabs the box of cereal and shakily fills a bowl, all the while feeling Will’s eyes on him. 

He manages to not spill the milk as he pours, but once he’s finished, he can’t avoid looking up, because he missed grabbing a spoon. 

“Merlin-,” Will says and looks at him from over the rim of his chipped Hulk cup. 

Merlin gets to his feet and walks towards the drawer to get a spoon, feeling a little bit guilty because he knows from the tone of Will’s voice that he wants to say something and Merlin is pretty sure he doesn’t want to hear it. 

When he sits down again, Will sighs. 

“Merlin. You have to go home at some point.” 

“I’m not going back to Paul,” Merlin says, amazed how his voice comes out all defensively. He shakes his head for good measure, then plunks the spoon into his cereal and lifts cornflakes to his mouth. His hand only shakes a little bit. It’s good, he decides. He didn’t drink too much with Gwaine last night, then.

“I didn’t mean go back to Paul,” Will says long-suffering and when Merlin glances his way, he rolls his eyes. “I meant you should go home. To your mother.” 

Merlin doesn’t say anything for a long time, shovelling cornflakes into his mouth steadily, wishing he could avoid the conversation, but knowing that it was inevitable and Will is right. He’s been staying on Will’s couch for the last three months, ever since he moved out, and he’s been a regular guest on it for at least the last six months before that. 

“I love you, mate. But you have to leave at some point.” 

Merlin stops eating for a moment and takes a look around Will’s dingy one-room-apartment and knows that he can’t stay here indefinitely. The timing is awful, though. He has half-heartedly looked at rooms, but they are all over his budget, and he had wanted to avoid going home for more than one reason. 

“I’m not sure, but they might have converted my room to a nursery for Pip already,” he says and pushes another shaky spoonful of cornflakes to his mouth. “Also, Arthur is probably already home - he’s finishing in Newcastle.” He wants it to sound nonchalant, but Will is having none of it. 

From across the table, Will groans and plunks down his cup hard, making the rickety table rattle and shake. “Seriously, Merlin? That’s what this is about? Fucking Arthur?” 

“No,” Merlin says, trying to put conviction into his tone of voice, carefully staring into his bowl. 

“Ugh,” Will groans, and when Merlin looks over at his friend, Will is glaring at him. “Oh my God, you’re such a stupid sod. I can’t believe I’m friends with you. You disgust me. Like… every fuck-up in your life is related to your stupid fucking step-brother.” 

“Yeah…” Merlin finishes fishing out soggy cornflakes from his bowl, puts the spoon aside and empties the bowl by slurping the milk from it. 

Will sounds more compassionate when he speaks again. “I’m really sorry, Merlin, but you have to go home. You should call your mother later and tell her you’re coming.” 

“You’re tossing me out on my arse?”

“Yes, that’s it! I’m tossing you out on your skinny gay arse,” Will growls, then adds, “Don’t be ridiculous. You have a giant house in Kensington. Your folks have two luxurious couches. You can sleep on one of those.” 

Sighing, Merlin relents. “I’ll call my mother later. Just… I want to take a shower and then I’m out of your hair, alright?” 

Will nods and sighs and pushes himself up from the table to put his empty cup in the sink, something Merlin notes with a tiny amount of resentment. Will always tries to make him wash the dishes by stacking the dirty dishes in the sink until Merlin is so disgusted that he washes up. 

“I’m going to Lidl for groceries and when I come back, you’d better be gone for the day,” Will suggests and grabs his keys. 

Merlin nods and grabs for the cereal again, still hungry. He fills up another bowl as Will walks out the door, then empties the rest of the milk on it. Will has absolutely every right to demand that he leave. Merlin has certainly overstayed his welcome. For weeks, if not months. And there will be benefits to being back home. He won’t have to cook his own food. The mere thought of Annie’s veggie burgers makes him salivate, despite the stale cornflakes he’s currently shovelling into his mouth. 

He’s only half-way through his second bowl, when he decides to hell with it and picks up his mobile where he tossed it to the table. It’s pretty battered already, the screen cracked into cobwebs, but this is because Merlin is clumsy and doesn’t take care of his things. Fortunately, the phone still works and he quickly calls his mother, surprised when she picks up after the second ring. 

“Sweetie,” she says, sounding delighted, “how are you?” 

In the background, he can hear Pip pressing keys on her toy piano at random, a discordant cacophony of sound. 

For a moment, Merlin doesn’t know how to answer. They talk on the phone to each other at least twice a week, but he hasn’t been over in two weeks, not since his birthday, and he has been pretty good in keeping mention of Paul out of their conversations. 

Pip keeps hitting the keys with abandon, probably flatly with both hands, and Hunith makes a shushing noise. “Quiet, Pip, I can’t hear what your brother’s been saying.”

“Hey,” Hunith says again warmly. “If she continues like that, she can join you in your band.” 

“That’ll take a few years,” Merlin suggests, but he smiles at his mother’s teasing suggestion. 

Hunith laughs at his joke, but then is silent, obviously waiting for him to speak. 

It takes Merlin a ridiculous amount of time to muster up the courage and energy to say what he needs to say. “Mum,” he finally starts, knowing he sounds whiny, “Mum, can I come home?”

There’s a brief pause before his mother answers and she’s clearly startled. “Of course, sweetie! Of course! Did something happen with Paul? I thought something was wrong, he wasn't even over at your birthday!"

“Uhmmm…,” Merlin says, then decides the truth is for the best. “We broke up. But it has been some time ago. I just… I didn’t feel like talking about it. I wanted to deal with it on my own.” 

“Where are you staying?” His mother’s voice is concerned. 

“At Will’s. I’ve been at Will’s.” 

“Ugh, that _shithole_?” she mutters, making him snort out surprised laughter. “What? You said so yourself, these are your exact words.”

“It was better than staying,” Merlin admits and leans back in his chair, feeling a bit better, knowing that he will have his mother on his side, no matter what. 

“I’m sorry,” she offers. 

Merlin wipes a hand over his eyes, feeling tired and frustrated just as always when he thinks about Paul and their relationship. “We… had differences. Obviously.” 

“Obviously,” Hunith echoes. She waits a beat, giving him time to say something else, but when no words are forthcoming, she asks, “When are you coming over?” 

“Is there even room for me there?” 

Hunith snorts out a laugh. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she says, sounding so much like Will, that Merlin rolls his eyes. “And don’t worry about your room. Uther hasn’t yet managed to do anything with it, because that stubborn man insists he is going to build that nursery himself. The way he’s going, Poppy will be grown up when he’s finally finished with her room. I mean, she’s almost two now.”

“It’s the garden all over again, isn’t it?” Merlin asks, thinking of their backyard and how Uther had insisted on building Hunith a garden paradise and only ended up enslaving Arthur for his purposes, without ever finishing it. They had hired someone to tend it twice a year, so it didn’t fall back into total disarray when Arthur moved to Newcastle. 

“If you want to come tonight, it’s fine. Actually, I want you to come over. I’ll make up your bed.” 

“Mum..”

“No, Merlin. I think you should come over now. I’ll make your favourite food and you can show Pip how to play Incy Wincy Spider on the toy piano.” 

“You just need a babysitter,” he mutters, but she doesn’t reply to his taunt as if she didn’t hear it, instead telling Pip to put down the glass of water, no, gently! 

“Is Arthur home already?” he finally asks, and once more he’s pretty sure she can read his apprehension from just four words. 

“He’s been home for three days now. I bet he’ll be delighted to know you can take over babysitting duty once in a while.” 

So she definitely heard that, Merlin thought. “Great,” he mutters. 

“You know what,” Hunith says, “we can fire up the grill. Put it to good use. Rub that garden thing into Uther’s face. I’ll buy your favourite sausages.” 

“You just like to see your husband try and fail to grill a steak,” Merlin says and his mother laughs. 

“I’m happy you’re coming home,” Hunith says. “I missed having you here.” 

“For the babysitting, sure.” 

“Don’t say that!” she cries in indignation and Merlin grins. 

He can’t believe he has kept putting this off. All of a sudden, all he wants is to get home immediately, pull his mother in a hug and not let go. They’ve seen each other since he broke up with Paul, several times, but now that she knows, it feels different. 

“See you later, Mum,” he says warmly and they say their goodbyes. 

When Merlin sets down his mobile and looks around the room, the urge to pack his bags comes immediately. He’s so sick of Will’s room just like Will is sick of his face, he’s sure. The talk with his mother has left him energised and eager to leave. He doesn’t put it off anymore, but instead gets up to take a shower and pack his things. 

It’s strange stepping into the house again, knowing he will not leave tonight, nor for the next foreseeable future. Not much has changed, apart from a couple of details. There are photographs on the wall up the stairs and one of Pip’s toy elephants lies forgotten in the hallway. 

“Good God,” Hunith mutters as she sees it and picks it up. “She loses the stupid thing all over the house and then terrorizes us when she can’t find it.” 

Merlin drops his suitcase and duffle bag in the hall, feeling like a stranger, even though he lived in this house for more than 3 years.

Hunith leads the way towards the terrace and they step out into the small, green backyard. As always, Merlin is surprised that such a lush garden exists in the middle of London, but then, this is an old Mews house and when they overhauled the garden a couple of years ago, it was done very subtly, leaving enough of the greenery to make it into a little oasis. It strikes him again how they are so very privileged. When he was young, they weren’t exactly piss-poor - there had been a roof over their heads and food on the table thanks to his mother being a hard worker and a sensible woman - but years later he still can feel the culture shock of moving out of their council flat into one of the highest priced locations in London, of having things suddenly so readily available. 

Uther sits at the table with Pip in his lap, reading a picture book to her but Merlin’s eyes are instantly drawn towards the grill, where Arthur stands with his back to him, rotating a steak on the grate. Arthur doesn’t turn around, too busy with his task to notice the new arrival, but Merlin takes in his broad back and tanned calves in his baggy shorts and feels the pressing urge to run. 

“Mewin,” Pip says excitedly when she spots him and he grins automatically and jogs over to lift her out of Uther’s lap and greet her. As usual, she has about three different food stains on her blouse and her mouth is sticky where she presses a kiss against his cheek, but Merlin doesn’t mind. No matter how much he complains about babysitting her, he actually adores her.

Uther pulls him into a brief one-armed man-hug and claps his back, and mutters something about how it’s good to see him, before going back to entertain Pip. All that is left for Merlin to do is greet Arthur, so he takes a deep breath and walks over to the grill, pushing his hands into his pockets in hopes of not fidgeting too much. 

“Hey,” he says softly, moving to stand next to Arthur’s shoulder, his eyes firmly on the grill, pretending to check out the vegan options on offer. His awareness of Arthur’s body next to him is almost overwhelming, Arthur’s presence undeniable. 

“Hey,” Arthur echoes and rotates the steak again, the meat juices sizzling as they hit the hot coals underneath the grate.

“What’s for dinner?” Merlin asks stupidly, because there’s nothing else he can think of to say. 

“For you?” Arthur asks, and there’s a smile somewhere hidden in his words. When Merlin doesn’t immediately answer, Arthur takes a step back and indicates a tin foil plate with his grill fork, pointing out the options. “Vegan sausages, grilled corn, tofu in a herb marinade.” 

“Sounds great,” Merlin mutters, feeling awkward. When he lifts his eyes from the grill, he finds Arthur watching him with that same small smile he could hear in Arthur’s voice. He forgot that smile, Merlin realises. He forgot how it was so charming and secret the way it played around his lips. He also forgot - or maybe suppressed - the soft set of Arthur’s mouth or the exact blue of his eyes and how his hair looks almost golden when the sun hits it. 

“It’s good to see you,” Arthur says and Merlin shrugs his shoulders, unable to voice a response, wondering if Arthur is taking note of how he looks, too, and if Arthur notices the dark circles underneath his eyes or the patchy stubble on his chin or his outgrown hair that hangs into his eyes, even more untamed than usual. It’s a good time to admit that he kind of let himself go for a while. 

“Merlin!” Hunith calls from the table, “could you please season the tomato salad? I can’t decide if it needs more salt!” 

“Duty calls,” Arthur says and grins again, his cheeks dimpling. “Glad you’re now here to share the burden.” 

Merlin can’t help but answer the grin, because it’s infectious and Arthur is just as handsome as ever and there’s no way that Merlin isn’t noting that. Before he can say something stupid, like maybe how much he missed Arthur’s smiles, he turns on his heel and walks back towards the table, where Hunith has started to set out the tableware. 

All during dinner, Merlin valiantly attempts to keep his eyes from being drawn to Arthur, but it’s a losing battle. They haven’t seen each other since Christmas - which turned out to be a disaster - and before that, they’ve maybe been in the same room with each other more than six or seven times over the last two years since Merlin moved out. And even before that, with Arthur studying in Newcastle, they went months at a time where they didn’t see each other. 

Arthur has changed over the last couple of years. His face has lost its baby fat and his hair is longer. His arms are strong and tanned and Merlin’s eyes keep flitting to the cords in his forearms, endlessly fascinated by the way they move underneath Arthur’s skin. He looks healthy and fit and Merlin feels especially pasty-white and lanky sitting opposite him. 

The dinner conversation revolves mostly around Arthur’s last weeks at school and his graduation project, which he was invited to keep working on for a group exhibition in London in September, his first professional gallery job. They talk at length about the new words Pip has learned and which she happily demonstrates, crowing them from her high-chair admits flying pieces of sweet potato mash she keeps shovelling into her mouth. Her face is smeared from her left ear to her right ear and there’s orange mash crusted in her dark hair where she put her little fists. Merlin learns that Morgana left two days ago for a trip with her boyfriend to Cornwall, but that she’ll be back in a fortnight. 

It’s strange, he thinks, they will all be together, living under one roof, after more than two years. He’s grateful that nobody mentions Paul, and he credits his mother for obviously briefing Uther and Arthur on that detail. 

They eat for more than two hours until Merlin feels unbearably stuffed and full to the brim. The day’s heat has given way to a rather pleasant evening and he leans back in his chair, sipping on his second beer and feeling strangely content. At around 8 o’clock Pip starts to get whiny and cranky despite having had ice cream, and Hunith and Uther both get up to prepare her for bed, apparently a task that nowadays needs two parents, Merlin thinks. 

Then again, maybe Uther just prefers reading bedtime stories to doing the dishes. 

Arthur gets up as well, but returns only a minute later with two cold bottles of beer, handing one to Merlin, before sinking back into the chair opposite him. He looks at Merlin for a long moment without saying anything, and suddenly, the awkwardness from before has returned in full force. Merlin really doesn’t know what to say to Arthur now that they are alone. Everything he wants to say seems laden with a hidden meaning.

It’s Arthur who finally speaks and he immediately cuts straight to the chase. 

“I’m sorry about Paul.” 

“I’m not,” Merlin says, which isn’t true. There’s plenty he’s sorry about concerning Paul, but he’s had three months on Will’s couch thinking about it and he’s so bloody tired of it. 

Arthur gives a startled laugh. “How long were you together?” 

Merlin hesitates to answer, because he has to think about it. “About 2 years. But… I guess it hadn’t been going that well for a long time.” 

Strangely enough, it’s easy telling that to Arthur, even though he pretended everything was fine when friends made observations in the past. About Paul’s patronising attitude. Or his jealousy. 

“I’m really sorry to hear that.”

“He hated my music. He thought I was better off focusing solely on school.” 

“Well, he’s an idiot.” 

Merlin snorts. “You never liked him very much.” 

“No,” Arthur says honestly and takes a sip from his beer, his eyes not leaving Merlin’s face. 

Merlin feels the blush rise on his face and he takes a sip from his own bottle, hoping to hide his flush. “The feeling was totally mutual,” he mutters, thinking of last Christmas and how that had definitely been a boiling point and a catalyst for the end of their relationship. 

_Your step-brother is an arrogant prick. Who does he think he is?_ he hears Paul’s angry voice in his mind on that not so long ago Christmas Day Evening when they returned to their flat from celebrating Christmas with Merlin’s family. 

Arthur places the bottle between his open legs, his fingers toying with the label. He looks down for a bit, fiddling with the wet paper, before raising his gaze to Merlin’s face again. “I always felt like he wanted to change you. You shouldn’t change. I want you to always stay the way you are.” 

This time, Merlin can’t help the redness creeping up into his face. “Thanks,” he croaks out. “I guess.” He takes a sip from his beer, then wipes his mouth. 

“We should better clean up before we get too tired,” he suggests, trying to steer the conversation elsewhere.

“I’m fine. I’ve mostly been sleeping these past few days. If you get tired, you can go upstairs, I’ll clean up,” Arthur shrugs. “I’d rather sit here with you for a little while longer, than wash the dishes.” 

Merlin wonders when Arthur became so suave and he in turn became so awkward. 

“I feel like we haven’t talked in years.” 

“We haven’t,” Merlin agrees. 

“Do you still have stuff at Paul’s? I could help you get it,” Arthur offers. 

“Oh, we’re still on that? I hoped we were finished with that topic.” Merlin tries for a light tone, relieved when his words come out more like his usual cheeky self. 

Arthur chuckles and shoots him a fond look. “Yeah, we’re still on that. But seriously, if you want, I’ll drive over with you and help you.” 

“That’s not necessary. Everything is already in storage. But… thank you.” Secretly, Merlin thinks that there could have been no worse idea than showing up on Paul’s doorstep with Arthur in tow. Someone would most certainly get punched.

_"Oh my God, Merlin, don’t tell me there’s a history there?! He’s your step-brother! - Wow, you shagged him, didn’t you?!”_

Merlin shakes himself, not wanting to revisit that particular damaging conversation. “I rather not talk about Paul anymore. That’s over.” 

“He seemed so serious about it…,” Arthur mutters, obviously not yet ready to relinquish the topic. “Come to think of it, so did you.” 

“It was a mistake. I guess I wanted to know what all that fuss about relationships was about,” Merlin says, inflicting his words with as much disdain as he can. It’s easy to fall back into his old pattern, to scoff about relationships and love like it means nothing to him. It’s a familiar mechanism to mask his feelings and insecurities and maybe it’s transparent to someone who knows him, someone like Arthur, but then again, Arthur has long ago signed off on that aspect of Merlin’s personality. 

“Hmmm,” Arthur says, and he glances down into his lap at the moist glass bottle.

“How about you show me some of the art you’re working on?” Merlin says, trying to forcefully change the subject again. It’s not a very subtle diversion, but he’s so sick and tired of talking about his failed relationship with anyone, least of all Arthur.

His suggestion makes a smile blossom on Arthur’s face. “We should probably clean up first. But if you’re not dead tired by then, I can show you.” 

Merlin nods and pushes himself quickly up from his chair. He is just about to reach for a plate, when he realises that the air has shifted and Arthur is standing at his right. 

“I’m really glad you’re home,” Arthur says softly, his words almost a whisper. Merlin’s throat is tight as he ponders how to reply, but he’s spared an answer, because Arthur pulls him into a hug, a brief one-armed man-hug like the one Uther bestowed on him, but with Arthur it feels scarily different. Merlin’s synapses start firing out frenetic signals in a heartbeat and Arthur is pressing warm and familiar and slightly damp from the heat against him. Merlin’s eyes drop shut and he stands stiffly, his hands twitching by his sides, so eager to reach out and touch and pull Arthur into a real, full-bodied hug that it’s almost painful. 

He breathes flatly through his nose, inhaling Arthur’s scent, sweat and heat and sunblock. He smells irresistible and Merlin wants to bury his face into his neck. 

Arthur lets go much too soon and Merlin sways slightly on his feet. It’s Arthur’s turn to look slightly embarrassed, but he seems to catch himself quickly. 

“Let’s finish up, all right?” 

Merlin nods and grabs the plates with shaky hands, stacking them noisily, his clumsiness resulting in cutlery tumbling to the table, not daring to look to his right where Arthur is doing the same.

The next two weeks pass quickly between work - he’s working his industry year at Charing Cross’s Orthotics and Prosthetics department - and getting settled in back at home. With Gwaine and Will’s help and the use of Gwaine’s father’s delivery van he manages to get all his things out of storage and back home. 

It’s a relief to get settled back into his old room, even though one of the walls has been half-painted a bright pink, Uther’s ill-advised attempt to get started on Pip’s nursery. Even better is the moment he connects his sound system and is able to blast his favourite records without having to resort to headphones. There’s a moment where Merlin just stands in the middle of the room and closes his eyes, enjoying the slight vibration of the bass, smiling and listening to Death from Above 1979 like he never heard them before. It’s sweltering in the attic room and sweat is rolling down his back underneath his shirt, but he feels so content, the weather is barely a nuisance. 

He’s startled out of his bliss when there’s a knock on the door, and then a moment later, Arthur pokes his head inside, looking adorably tousled. 

“Whoa, I didn’t realise I missed this,” he says and without further prompting steps inside. 

“Is that meant to be sarcastic?” Merlin asks and wrinkles his nose. He’s really not sure and living with Paul for almost two years made him think that his taste in music was difficult at least if not straight out offensive to sensitive ears. 

Arthur shakes his head and rolls his eyes. “Nah. Actually, it’s not. I happen to like Death from Above.” He takes a look around the room, his eyes flitting over the boxes of tech, Merlin’s instruments, the bookshelf. Merlin watches Arthur take a step forward, lifting a hand to trail his fingers over the spines of the books as he cranes his head to read the titles. 

When Arthur is finished perusing Merlin’s books, he turns around again, eyes landing on the pink wall. He guffaws out a laugh. “Bloody hell,” he huffs, “that is offensive.” 

Merlin shrugs. “I’m going to paint it over at some point.” 

“You should put up art or posters. Your room is pretty bare,” Arthur observes, eyes roaming the empty walls. 

“I bet you have some suggestions for that,” Merlin says and reaches for his phone and reduces the volume so they can talk more comfortably.

Arthur’s eyes twinkle with delight at Merlin’s words. “If you want, I can lend you some of my art.” 

“I still have that drawing you gave me three years ago,” Merlin mutters, suddenly remembering. “It’s packed away in one of the boxes… I haven’t found time yet to hang it.” He takes a step towards the corner where some of his things are still in transport boxes. The framed drawing must be somewhere in there. He suddenly feels guilty for not having it up on the wall yet.

“It’s okay,” Arthur says softly. “You don’t need to put it up now.” 

“No!” Merlin protests, “I want to.” He crouches down in front of the boxes, then starts ripping open the top one. It’s full of binders with scripts from school. He lifts the box aside and reaches for the next one. The contents look promising, books and various knick-knacks that he put up on his shelves. 

“You can have a look at my framed work later,” Arthur says, crouching down by his side, his knee joints cracking audibly. 

Merlin is only half-listening, because he finally spots what he’s looking for, the light wooden frame with Arthur’s drawing and he crows in triumph when he pulls it out. 

“That would be fine,” he says absently, smiling as always when he finds the drawing of his mother. He pulls it out of the box and sits back on his heels, pulling the drawing in his lap. It’s a beautiful drawing on sepia paper with minimalistic, soft lines and a contemporary use of colour. 

There’s another knock on the door and this time it’s Morgana sticking her head in. 

“Hey, Merlin, do you still want to go swimming?” Morgana says, taking a step inside. She grins when her eyes fall on Arthur standing next to Merlin. “Oh, Arthur. Good. Do you want to come, too?”

”Where to? Serpentine Lido?,” Arthur asks and gets to his feet, brushing his hands on his shorts.

“Yes. We were going to take the bikes,” Morgana says, leaning in the door frame. 

“Sure, I’ll go,” Arthur shrugs, indicating his sweaty state, his flushed face and damp skin. He looks disgustingly good, even with sweat pearling on his nose. 

“We probably won’t find a place to put our towels…” Merlin suggests slowly, wondering if he can avert a crisis or still get out of it. The mere idea of seeing Arthur in even less clothes is affronting. Together with the heat, it would probably give him a stroke. 

“Swimming, Merlin. It’s worth a try. In this house we don’t care for towel space, we just care for water.” Arthur sounds like he’s going to laugh at him any moment now. “I think the heat is already going to your head.”

“I’m just being the voice of reason here.”

Chuckling, Arthur clasps a hand on his arm and hauls him to his feet. “Come on, before your brain fries completely.”

For a few seconds Merlin wonders once more what to say to get out of it, but it really is too hot and swimming in The Serpentine sounds like the perfect way to spend the rest of the afternoon. He finds his swimming trunks and packs towels and water and then they spend ten minutes debating what bike to take. Arthur and Morgana’s bikes are in perfect working condition, but Merlin’s hasn’t been used in years and has a flat tire, so he ends up on Uther’s narrow racing bike, the one Uther bought fifteen years ago when according to Arthur he wanted to lose weight. 

The ride to The Serpentine is short, but all three of them are still drenched in sweat when they arrive, Morgana’s yellow sundress clinging to her long legs. The Lido is packed, just as Merlin predicted, something that’s not surprising in the weather, but they still find a spot to roll out their towels, far at the back and crowded in from all sides. With a sigh Merlin thinks of the hammock strung up between two trees in the garden. 

He tries not to stare when Arthur steps out of his clothes, stripping down to his swimming trunks, tossing his tank top on his backpack, but it’s difficult and Merlin ducks his head and desperately attempts to get rid of the image of Arthur’s tanned chest and abs. He lost some weight since he stopped playing rugby two years ago due to an ankle injury and there’s less bulk on his bones now, his muscles defined and lean. Together with his tall frame and blond hair he looks devastating. Just looking at him makes Merlin glad that his swimming trunks are roomy and wide. 

“Race you, idiots!” Morgana cries, swatting at Merlin’s shoulder and taking off, zig-zagging through the people on their towels towards the water. She too looks more like someone from a magazine, there’s just nothing awkward about them. Merlin in contrast feels like the odd one out: Pasty and thin and hairy. He looks down at the strange tan-line that divides his tanned forearms from the rest of his pale body and scowls. Whatever. 

“Merlin, we can’t let her win!” Arthur crows and races after her, sprinting past the other Lido guests reclining in the sun, his legs surely and dexterously finding their path. Merlin follows much more sedately, not trusting his own clumsy self to perform the same agility without at least stepping on someone. 

The water is surprisingly cool and fresh probably due to the heavy rainfalls at the start of the week. When Merlin enters the water, he’s immediately accosted by Morgana, splashing water into his face, before hauling herself at him, arms around his neck, clinging. She’s heavy and he loses his footing and goes under, emerging with his hair hanging in his eyes, spluttering. 

Across from him, Arthur is howling with laughter, wiping water from his face. He looks so beautiful with drops clinging to his eyelashes and streaming down his chest that Merlin feels assaulted. 

“You’ll pay for that!” he mock-growls, then uses his greater strength to his advantage and dunks Morgana with a swift motion, grinning when her legs flail and trash as she struggles against his hold. When she comes up, she looks indignant and Arthur is still laughing. 

Morgana spits out a strand of dark hair, her eyes twinkling with mischief when she glances at Merlin. “On three?” she says challengingly, and Arthur’s eyes widen comically. 

“Now that’s not fair!” he cries, already moving backwards. “Two against one!”

“Three!” Morgana shouts like Merlin absolutely knew she would and they launch themselves forward. Arthur doesn’t stand a chance. 

Later, they rest on their towels. Morgana listens to music, while Merlin attempts to read. It’s loud at the Lido, almost too loud for conversation. He had forgotten that it was always stressful like this and how he much preferred their day trips out of town. Next to him, Arthur is sketching, his eyes flitting between the water’s edge and his sketchbook as he concentrates, pencil gliding over the paper surely. 

“What are you drawing?” Merlin asks, curiously, leaning forward. 

Arthur smiles when he looks up. “Just those kids playing,” he says and tilts the sketchbook to allow Merlin to see. Like always, he’s amazed by how Arthur manages to set down a scene with just a couple of strokes. 

“May I?” he asks, and Arthur hands over the sketchbook, allowing Merlin to leaf through it. He moves closer so that he can sit at Merlin’s shoulder and glance at the pages. His shoulder is amazingly cool when he brushes against Merlin’s skin and it makes Merlin shiver. 

It’s a recent sketchbook, there are only a couple of pages filled with little observational sketches, still life or people or objects. It’s nothing like what Arthur is doing these days, but he puts the same energy into those simple sketches. 

“Groundwork,” Arthur says softly from Merlin’s right shoulder, as if he’s guessing what Merlin is wondering about. “Keeps me alert and on my toes. You have to hone your craft, always.” 

Smiling, Merlin turns another page, sucks in a breath when he sees the sketch of the bust. 

“I was there last week when it rained,” Arthur murmurs, and his breath stirs the fine, curling hair at Merlin’s neck. 

Merlin takes in the sketch, Alexander’s strong nose and perfectly shaped curls, his broad chin and keen gaze and thinks back to that day. He remembers telling Arthur about Alexander, how he had the sudden urge to speak about what he felt, all the confusion he was experiencing at that time. He remembers taking Arthur’s hand and pulling him behind the Nereid Monument, keyed up from that strange, crazy weekend they spent mostly in bed, making out and getting each other off. 

“I always go to see him nowadays.” Arthur’s words send another shiver down Merlin’s spine and his mouth goes dry. He wonders if Arthur remembers that weekend too, what he thinks of it now, with the years between that moment and now. Merlin can still remember the wonder he experienced of making Arthur come again and again, how he was so responsive, how every touch was so intense, like nothing he ever felt before or since. 

Merlin can’t help the breath that escapes him and he quickly turns the page, relieved when it’s a sketch of one of Pip’s toys. He laughs. “Honing your craft, yes?”

Arthur rolls his eyes and chuckles. “It really doesn’t matter what you draw when you do observational drawing.” 

“I take your word for it,” Merlin mutters. 

“Much,” Arthur relents with a shrug. 

Merlin feels himself smile at the humour in Arthur’s voice, his heart skipping a beat. He’s forgotten how Arthur makes him feel most of the time, breathless, fond and full of want. It’s just as toxic as it was in the past, full of desperation and improper thoughts. Arthur is still his step-sibling, after all.


	14. Part 2: 2019 - Chapter 2

It’s strange how quickly they fall into a pattern, Merlin thinks. It’s almost like someone turned back the clock four and a half years. They start spending time with each other, once more thrown together by circumstance. They hang out in the garden with Merlin reading and Arthur sketching. They have dinner with the family. They have a schedule for the bathroom. 

Arthur is so level-headed and self-assured, so comfortable with who he is and what he wants. It’s like he shed his skin, moving past every insecurity and becoming someone who is determined and driven, qualities that were probably always there, but which are now very apparent and the defining characteristics of his personality. He’s honest and unafraid and speaks his mind. It’s most visible in the way he talks to his father, as if they are truly on equal footing. He always says what he means and he never shies away from contradicting his father and representing his point of view. It makes Merlin all kinds of happy to see him like that, a warm feeling that sweeps over him at the odd moment and fills him with pleasure. 

When he’s not at home, work keeps Merlin busy. His industry year is very hands-on and while it’s ending in mid-August, the last couple of weeks are still filled with an insane workload. It’s like Charing Cross wants to make sure they get the most out of their cheap workforce before he leaves. He’s fitting prosthetics, repairing artificial limbs and talking to patients. It’s valuable experience and he loves seeing the patients make progress or enjoying little updates and adjustments. It also makes him very aware that what he really wants to do is to go into research and development, make the tools even better, instead of just working with the medical equipment the industry has to offer. It means another five years of study for his PhD, and right now, it also looks like that will be another five years of living at home.

He’s still making music, though, but it has become a hobby, something to express his creativity and emotions. Merlin is pretty sure that if he took it seriously, it would take the fun out of it. Currently, the band’s only four people: Freya, Will, Merlin and Gilly, their new drummer. Mordred had left in early 2015 not too long after the break-up with Arthur, a decision Merlin whole-heartedly supported, even if it meant they were thrown out of their comfort zone without their lead singer and Gwen had only quit about a year ago to concentrate on the last year of university. 

He comes home from band practice on a Friday night, overheated and hungry. Morgana and Arthur are out, and upstairs, the telly is running in the living room. Merlin walks into the kitchen, loving the feel of his naked feet slapping against the cool tiles. He opens the fridge, standing in the cool air emerging from it for just a moment, before taking out water. There’s Alpro ice cream in the freezer and Merlin grabs the box and a spoon from the drawer and hops up onto the counter, feet dangling. 

He’s halfway through the box when he hears the front door open and close. Someone tosses keys onto the small side table in the hallway, then pads towards the kitchen. 

“Oh,” Arthur says, staring at Merlin like he didn’t expect him to be here. “It’s deja vu.” 

Merlin swallows the bite of ice cream, before lowering his spoon. “I’m not on drugs this time,” he smirks, watching as Arthur’s frown turns into an eye roll.

“Good,” Arthur mutters and steps inside the kitchen. He fills a glass of water at the sink, before rummaging through the drawer for a spoon. Merlin is watching the long line of his back in his grey t-shirt and kneads his lips, unsure of what to say. 

Arthur turns and lifts himself up on the counter next to Merlin, before reaching for the container of soy ice cream, dipping his spoon inside. 

“I love that ice cream,” he says quietly, cramming a filled spoon into his mouth. 

Merlin laughs. “Glad you stopped with that ridiculous no sugar business.”

Arthur shrugs. “I lost weight when I stopped playing rugby and eating like a rugby player. Didn’t feel too bad eating sugar anymore.”

Snorting, Merlin takes back the ice cream container and drags his spoon through the ice cream. “You’re lucky. It could have been the other way around!”

“Good metabolism, I guess,” Arthur says and shrugs again, reaching out once more for the ice cream. 

“Pendragon genes,” Merlin suggests. 

Arthur hums and they keep trading the ice cream carton between them. 

“Wow, I totally remember this,” Arthur suddenly says and he sounds amused. “You, sitting on this very same counter. Your shorts were tiny.” He looks down at Merlin’s trousers, a quick glance, but there’s nothing incriminating about Merlin’s summer shorts, even if they are a bit bunched up from sitting. Merlin looks too, thinks his knees look knobbly and pointy. They are a little scuffed where he fell three days ago chasing Pip around the garden. He thinks it makes him look like a child. 

He thinks back to that evening long ago and just like when he saw the drawing of Alexander’s bust, he can remember exactly what he had been feeling that day. Attraction. Frustration. Surprise. Lust. 

“I was a total arsehole. Total little shit,” he murmurs, biting his lip and placing the spoon down on the counter. He suddenly doesn’t feel like ice cream anymore. “I was just so…”, he weighs his words carefully, “... surprised.” 

“That I was gay?” Arthur asks calmly, and when Merlin looks up from staring at his knees, Arthur is licking ice cream from his lips and watching him curiously, blue eyes captivating. 

Merlin makes a sound of consent, his throat suddenly dry. “That you looked at me like that.” He pauses, looks away from Arthur’s inquisitive gaze and shrugs. “Things suddenly made sense.” 

“Didn’t feel like much sense to me.” 

Merlin snorts out a choked laugh. 

They are both silent for a bit. Merlin can hear the whirring of the freezer, the ticking of the clock on the wall, Arthur’s quiet breathing next to him. 

“Why did you sleep with me?” 

Arthur’s voice is very low, very rough. 

Merlin goes with his first reflex. “Come on,” he scoffs, trying to play it off. “I mean… look at you.” 

“Right,” Arthur says tersely and clipped. 

He raises his eyes to see Arthur’s mouth quirk, but the smile doesn’t reach his eyes. He looks… resigned, Merlin thinks. He doesn’t like the way Arthur is looking back at him, his eyes soft and sad. 

Merlin licks his lips, feeling his heart speed up as his body breaks out in goosebumps, despite the heat. “That wasn’t the only reason,” he says, prompted by the look in Arthur’s eyes. His voice is hoarse and he clears his throat. “Maybe… maybe in the beginning.” 

“What do you mean?” Arthur looks serious now, every trace of a smile gone from his face. The spoons rests on his thigh, residual ice cream melting into the fabric of his cotton shorts. 

Merlin swallows, barely able to keep looking at Arthur. He doesn’t know how to answer that, afraid of what might be coming out of his mouth if he attempts to reply. The tension is almost unbearable. Sweat trickles down the back of Merlin’s neck, soaking the collar of his shirt. 

“Arthur,” he breathes, a plea. 

“I’m still not into casual,” Arthur says, and his face is somber, a small frown appearing between his brows. 

Merlin feels his mouth twitch unhappily and he bites down on his lip, worrying the place where his lip ring sat with his teeth. It’s a habit he hasn’t gotten rid of, even though he took the ring out one and half years ago. He wants to say that he doesn’t want casual either, that nothing about _Arthur and Merlin_ is casual and never has been, but his voice doesn’t work. He tried not-casual with Paul and he fucked that up spectacularly. He can’t fuck things up with Arthur, not again. Not ever. 

Arthur takes his silence as the end to their conversation and pushes the almost empty box of ice cream back into Merlin’s hands. Merlin feels like he needs to say something, to tell Arthur everything he feels, everything that’s in his heart, but he’s just as confused as he was as a teenager and things haven’t gotten better, nor clearer and certainly not easier, at least not to him. He’s still as scared and confused about this thing between them. 

He watches numbly as Arthur hops off the counter and puts his spoon into the sink. When he turns, his face is shuttered. He gives one long look at Merlin, quirks his lips like he wants to convey that there are no hard feelings, and walks out. 

Merlin closes his eyes, fingers going numb around the ice cream box. He presses his forehead against the fridge, wondering if loving Arthur will ever get easier.

Summer moves on slowly, one exhausting heatwave following another. When Merlin isn’t working at the hospital, he tries to stay cool, as cool as possible when living in London. He starts riding his bike to work, he prefers sweating from movement than from being stuck to strangers on a train for twenty minutes. The ride is actually kind of nice, along Hyde Park and through St. James Park past Buckingham Palace, the journey much more relaxed than the one hour commute with two changes he suffered through from his old flat.

The backyard soon becomes his favourite space, the lush greenery offering a respite from the oppressive heat of the streets and the muggy stickiness of the tube. Also, the backyard offers something the rest of London can’t provide. 

On the far side of the terrace, Arthur has set up his home studio on a large table, using the natural light filtered by the trees. The attic rooms are usually heavily shaded against the sun during the day, unfit to do anything but sleep in them. On the table, Arthur’s drawing tools reside neatly next to glasses full of soft brushes and pockets of water color. There’s a box full of scissors and cutting tools, an assortment of glues, empty jam jars filled with stuff Merlin doesn’t recognise, crayons and pastels and inks. In the evening, he packs everything away into a wooden box, only to put it all out the next morning again. He works at a small, portable drawing table, much like an easel, with an adjustable stand. 

Merlin loves to watch him work from the hammock, where he pretends to read a book or listen to music. Most of the time, though, he’s dozing or staring past the pages, watching the muscles shift underneath Arthur’s shirt, wallowing in self-pity. 

Here they are, five years later, and Merlin still doesn’t know what to do. Or maybe he did know, once, what he was supposed to do, only he was too scared and went and fucked it all up irreparably. Seeing Arthur every day is making all his emotions resurface. For a while, actually for years, Merlin pretended like he was completely over what happened. It was easy telling himself that mutual attraction had made them sleep with each other but that neither of them had wanted more, so it fizzled out. He knows it isn’t true. He knows that Arthur wanted more, had said so. He knows that _he_ wanted more, even though he might not have been brave enough or bold enough to face that truth at the time. 

Now that truth sits inside his chest, applying firm pressure, a hurt that surfaces whenever Arthur smiles at him. And Arthur is constantly smiling, seeming relaxed and carefree. He doesn’t seem to be plagued by the same hurt Merlin experiences. Maybe, Merlin thinks darkly, watching Arthur’s tongue flicker out between parted lips as he draws, maybe Arthur is well and truly over his infatuation with Merlin. Maybe he found out what a fraud Merlin was, that deep down, underneath all the careless words and bold front, Merlin is just insecure. 

Next to Arthur, Pip is dragging crayons over a huge paper, her little fists tight as she moves them in scratches and circles, seemingly amazed at how her movements transfer onto paper. She, too, has her little tongue between her teeth, that same intense look like Arthur on her features. It must be one of Uther’s traits, then, Merlin thinks with amusement, only he can’t picture Uther doing the same. Sometimes, Pip’s hands move outside the paper, the table around it decorated with crayon marks. 

Merlin gives up on reading his book and swings out of the hammock, walking the brief distance towards the shady terrace. He fills his glass from a pitcher of water and takes a huge, gulping drink, before pouring more water into Arthur’s glass and Pip’s sippy cup. 

Arthur looks up from his work, that devastating smile again. He reaches for his glass and drinks, before setting it back down and bending over his drawing again. 

Merlin steps behind his shoulder, peering at what he’s working at. It’s a drawing of a person, as of yet not recognisable as someone particular, and Merlin knows that when it’s finished, it’s probably going to be cut out and used in one of Arthur’s collages. Arthur’s art style has evolved, nothing that is surprising considering he spent four years at one of the best art schools in the country. He’s working with a lot of different materials these days, incorporating collages and paper objects into his work. His drawing ability has evolved, but he rarely does photorealistic, opting for carefully reduced line work and expressionistic use of colour. Merlin thinks his art is provocative and while it seems light and airy at first glance, the themes are often dark, revealing mens’ inability to shape nature without jeopardizing life itself. 

Merlin is so caught up in watching Arthur lead his pencil over paper, that he startles when there’s a harsh wail from across the table. When he looks up, Pip’s sippy cup has been turned over and the water is flowing over her paper. 

“Oh, Shit - Pip, Pip… it’s all right.” Merlin reaches forward and sets the sippy cup upright, then pulls the paper up, shaking the water off. 

“We can put it in the grass to dry,” Arthur says, and takes the soggy paper from Merlin’s hand. 

Across the table, Pip is still wailing, huge tears springing from her eyes, her face red and desperate. 

“I hate when she does that,” Merlin mutters and reaches out to pick her up, pulling her against his chest. She’s screaming so loud that his ears are ringing. “It’s okay. Arthur saved the paper. It will dry.”

Against his chest, Pip wails, while he rocks her. 

“She also needs a change,” he groans, catching the whiff of spoiled diapers and wrinkles his nose. 

Arthur grins and claps his shoulder. “You’d better get to it,” he says with a certain amount of glee. “I’m working.” 

“Sure,” Merlin mutters and shoots him a dark look. 

He takes Pip inside, changes her diapers and then sets her up with Hunith in the kitchen. When Merlin returns to the garden, Arthur is reclining in the hammock, one leg hung over the side, swinging, reading the book Merlin discarded earlier. 

“I thought you were busy working,” Merlin says accusingly and lifts his foot to lightly kick Arthur in the arse. 

Arthur lowers the book and mock-glares. “I decided it was a good time for a break.” 

“You’re hogging my hammock.” 

“It’s not _your_ hammock,” Arthur says with an eye-roll. “I put it up.” 

“I was in it just earlier and this is my book you’re reading,” Merlin says petulantly and kicks Arthur again. 

“Stop kicking me, you clotpole!” Arthur hisses and glares. “Also, the hammock holds two, I tried it with Morgana. Climb in, but if you kick me in the face, I’ll end you.” 

Merlin is doubtful about the weight, but he does as he is told when Arthur pulls his legs back so he can climb in. The hammock swings precariously and he grips the fabric tightly, before carefully lying back. Arthur stretches out his foot to his left and Merlin too arranges himself to Arthur’s left. The hammock quivers and swings, but ultimately holds. 

“This is scary,” Merlin mutters. “We’re going to land on our arses and it’s going to be your fault.” 

“Pfft,” Arthur makes and puts the book down on his chest. He’s bending the spine and Merlin hates when people do that, but he doesn’t want to say anything. Merlin puts his arm behind his head and briefly stares up into the lush shade of leaves above.

“Aren’t you glad you didn’t cut down the trees?” Merlin asks, before looking back at Arthur. 

“I am. Now shut up and let me read,” Arthur mutters and lifts his naked foot and pokes Merlin’s cheek with a toe. 

“Hey!” Merlin calls and reaches out, grabbing Arthur’s ankle to still him. “Keep that thing away from my face or I’ll bite it.”

“You wouldn’t dare.” 

“Oh, I certainly would!” 

Arthur grins, but pulls his foot gently from Merlin’s grasp and sets it further away from Merlin’s face. 

“Read aloud. You stole my book,” Merlin says. 

“Come on. You can probably recite these works by heart,” Arthur replies. “Also, I don’t like reading poetry. I feel stupid.”

“That’s because you are. Stupid.” Merlin grins broadly when Arthur tosses the book at him. 

“You do it then. Read to me.” 

Merlin clears his throat and reaches to where the pages are still open from Arthur’s rough handling of the paperback. 

It’s _Here I love you_ , and he clears his throat again and skips over the page to another poem, much less inclined to produce a strange moment. 

He reads one poem, then another, distracted by the brush of Arthur’s naked calf against his arm. One of Arthur’s legs dangles outside the hammock, making it sway gently. His eyes are closed.

“You are skipping poems,” Arthur observes softly and cocks one eye at him, a small smirk around his mouth. 

“Yes,” Merlin says, because it’s true. 

“Read the one before that.” 

Merlin turns the page back and clears his throat. When he starts reading, his voice is hoarse and low. 

“ _I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,_

_or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off._

_I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,_

_in secret, between the shadow and the soul._ ”

He finds himself lowering the book, glancing over at Arthur, who is smiling softly with his eyes closed, hands clasped behind his head. Merlin knows the poem by heart, he doesn’t need the book, here Arthur was correct, and he lowers it into his lap, rather watching Arthur laid out next to him, so close, so far away. 

_"I love you as the plant that never blooms_

_but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;_

_thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,_

_risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body._

_I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where._

_I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;_

_so I love you because I know no other way than this:_

_where I does not exist, nor you,_

_so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,_

_so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep."_

When he is finished, Arthur doesn’t say a word, and Merlin’s voice is too hoarse to read another poem. He watches how the sunlight that filters through the green canopy above catches the summer highlights of Arthur’s hair and feels like his heart will burst or like he’s going to cry or maybe say something stupid he might not be able to take back. 

The moment is broken when his mother’s angry voice rings through the garden, startling him. 

“Merlin! Did you use the word “Shit” in front of Poppy?” 

“Fuck,” Merlin squeaks and ducks his head, wishing he could vanish into thin air. 

Arthur starts snickering, the trembling of his body shaking the hammock. His eyes are wide and amused when he looks at Merlin and his mouth is twitching. 

“Clotpole,” he says softly, nudging Merlin’s hand. 

“...and then he says: I’m pretty sure there’s something wrong with your phone. And Gwen is like: No, why would there be something wrong? I just got it two weeks ago. And Lance says: Let me have a look. She hands over the phone and he’s doing something, before giving it back. And Lance says, - here, I fixed it.” Merlin pauses to take a sip of water from his glass, then wipes the wetness from his mouth. “Gwen says: But there was nothing wrong with it, I’m sure. And Lance’s like-” Merlin pauses for dramatic effect, “- oh, there was something wrong, it didn’t have my number!”

Across from him, Arthur nearly doubles over as he starts howling with laughter. 

“He put his number under ‘Future Husband.’”

“Smooth,” Arthur says and laughs again. “I never knew how that happened. Only that they were suddenly going out and it seemed serious. And now they are still together. After four years.”

“Getting married,” Merlin confirms.

“Insane,” Arthur agrees, shaking his head. 

Merlin grins and leans back in the lawnchair, folding his hands behind his back. “I can’t believe I’m performing at her wedding.” 

“You’re also her best man. I mean… you have that speech prepared, right?” 

It hits Merlin all at once that accepting Gwen’s proposal for best man also means he has a role to fill other than to calm her down when she’s freaking out before the wedding or voicing his opinion on the menu. 

“Oh…” he mutters, his face falling, prompting Arthur to cackle at him. 

“You didn’t realise,” Arthur snickers gleefully and slaps his knee. 

“No.” Merlin winces, horrified as he thinks of standing up at the reception and praising Gwen’s marriage. “Oh my God, can you imagine me giving a speech about… “ he trails off, suddenly embarrassed for his future self who’s going to stutter through trite observations about love and relationships, things he absolutely has no sound experience with. 

“About Gwen,” Arthur says helpfully. “Yes.” He is still smirking, but his eyes are soft. “You’ll be brilliant.” 

“Oh God,” Merlin mutters again, pushing his fingers into his hair and tugging the strands in frustration. 

Arthur leans forward and places his forearms on his knees. “You could tell the story you just told me. It’s cute.” 

“They will expect me to be witty, won’t they? And deep. Witty and deep,” Merlin moans. 

“Yeah, I can see where that is going to be a problem,” Arthur says dead-pan. 

“Ugh, you’re the worst!” Merlin complains, reaching behind himself to grip a pillow, having no qualms at all to fling it at Arthur’s laughing face. The pillow hits Arthur’s square on the chin making him sputter in indignation, before it drops into his lap. 

“Score!” Merlin crows out gleefully and throws his fists up in triumph. He gets a face full of pillow for his trouble, but recovers quickly to fling it back at Arthur, who has twisted sideways to reach for more pillowy weapons distributed lovingly by Hunith on the patio furniture. 

Soon, pillows are flying forth and back between them.

“Don’t you think it’s funny they are called throw pillows?” Merlin gasps out during a pause making Arthur groan and roll his eyes heavenwards.

“You really have no reason to worry about your speech. You already have the art of bad puns down to a T.” 

“So, bad puns are a requirement for wedding speeches?” Merlin asks and flings two pillows in quick succession. He must be getting tired, because one of the pillows misses Arthur completely, dropping to the ground next to his chair. 

“Bad puns, embarrassing stories and dirty innuendos. You’ll excel at those,” Arthur pants, then flings the pillow in a high arch, putting too much force into it. Merlin ducks down in the chair, grinning when the pillow sails over his head. 

“Oh,” Arthur suddenly says and sits up straighter, colour flooding his cheeks. “Father,” he adds, looking for just a moment like he’s six and has done something naughty. 

When Merlin twists around in his chair, Uther stands behind him, hair tousled, holding the pillow that missed Merlin. Next to him, Morgana is grinning from ear to ear, a barely concealed look of schadenfreude on her face. 

“Arthur,” Uther says, then looks from Merlin’s flushed face to Arthur’s red cheeks, one of his eyebrows rising in silent question. 

When Arthur doesn’t say anything to explain the pillow fight, Uther drops the pillow into Merlin’s lap and sighs. “Are you ready?” 

Merlin almost forgot that Arthur and Uther had planned to go shopping for furniture for what Merlin silently calls “The Big Move of 2019”. When Morgana revealed she was moving in with her boyfriend Tristan two weeks ago, Hunith had decided that it was a good idea to completely overhaul the second floor and move all their bedrooms. Pip would get Arthur’s room, while Arthur moved to the Skyroom where he could draw, and Merlin would get the old Master bedroom on the ground floor, while Merlin’s room got turned into their parents’ room. It seemed complicated at first glance, but neither of them could deny the practicality. Merlin for his part was glad that he wouldn’t have to get up in the night to play Pip’s nursemaid.

Arthur nods and pushes himself to his feet. “Yes, let’s go.” He reaches for his glass of water and drains it, before placing it back down on the table. 

“Don’t think I won’t bombard you with ideas for my best man speech when you return,” Merlin says, and Arthur stops next to his chair and puts a hand on Merlin’s shoulder, his fingers warm and slightly damp. 

“I wouldn’t dare,” he promises, his lips quirking. “See you later, clotpole.” 

“Insufferable prat,” Merlin mutters sotto voce, but loud enough for Arthur to hear. Arthur’s smile widens and he squeezes Merlin’s shoulder, before straightening. 

Merlin can’t help but stare after him, biting his lip as he watched Arthur’s arse move underneath the thin fabric of his shorts. It’s a sight he’s pretty sure he’s never, ever going to be tired of. 

“Ugh, you guys are disgusting!” Morgana mutters and drops into the vacated lawnchair with a huff. 

Her voice startles Merlin out of his reverie and he blushes, twisting around in his seat. Across from him, Morgana watches him with a deep wrinkle in her forehead, her mouth pursed. 

“When are you going to tell my brother that you’re still devastatingly in love with him?” she asks bluntly and lifts one sandal-clad foot to poke his shin. 

“What?” Merlin says dumbly, wiping his suddenly sweaty hands on his pants. His shoulder tingles where Arthur placed his fingers just earlier. 

“Ugh,” Morgana says again, disdain in her tone. She twists sideways and slings her legs over the edge of the chair, then reaches into the small purse she’s slung around her neck. She pulls out a pack of cigarettes and lights one, before offering the pack to Merlin. 

Merlin shakes his head. Unlike Morgana, he never really got into the habit of smoking. He guesses he’s lucky. He can just smoke a cigarette once in a while, then go without for months without craving another. 

Morgana takes a drag from her cigarette, then blows out smoke almost aggressively. “Seriously, Merlin. That mutual pining is getting old. Also, you’re both single right now. What in blazes is holding you back?” 

“I... “ Merlin starts, then trails off. “He…” 

Morgana makes another severely disgusted groan. “You’re both pathetic. You should just tell him.” She blows out another cloud of smoke, then tilts her head, an amused, challenging glint appearing in her eyes. “Or I will.” 

“You will not!” 

When Morgana cackles and winks at him, Merlin realises he didn’t even deny her observation. 

“Then please, just tell him. I’ve been privy to your stupid dance for years now,” she says. “So glad I’m moving out and don’t have to watch you awkwardly step around each other anymore. All that embarrassing unresolved sexual tension is bringing me down.” 

“I can’t,” Merlin whines, dropping his head in his hands. “What if I fuck it up. Again?” 

“I doubt it can get any worse than outing him in front of his family while at the same time revealing that you’ve been going at it like bunnies in secret?” 

“Oh God,” Merlin mutters in mortification. “Stop talking, evil witch.” 

Morgana cackles again. “I will never, ever let you live that down. That was pretty glorious as far as fuck ups go.” 

Merlin moans quietly into his hands, before heaving out a long sigh and straightening slowly. He’s surprised to find Morgana look at him with compassion, her eyes soft. 

“You won’t fuck up this time,” she says. “You will probably be very embarrassing, though.” 

“Please,” Merlin says and rolls his eyes, “stop talking.” 

“I will keep talking about this until I see you make a very serious move on my brother and put everyone out of their misery. It’s on you, this whole thing. You have him convinced that you don’t want a relationship with him, so unless you tell him that you are madly in love with him and possibly want to get married and raise blond, annoying babies, nothing is going to happen. Or well. You know what’s going to happen. Someone else will want to have his annoying babies and spend the rest of his life with him.” 

“You’re so very good at exaggerating,” Merlin says sourly. 

Morgana’s mouth twitches and she takes another drag from her cigarette. “Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about how it could be. The two of you. Together.” 

“I try not to.” 

“Hmm,” Morgana says. “I always thought you were really cool. Really bold. Fearless.”

“Sorry, you’ve figured me out. I’m just chicken-shit scared like the rest.”

Merlin is so very tired of talking about this. He knows that Morgana is right, that he has to do something or someone will snatch Arthur away and he will spend the next couple of years or more beating himself up over missing his second chance. But what if it doesn’t work out? What if they start fighting? If Arthur decides that while he can’t do casual, he can’t do more with Merlin either? 

Morgana sighs and presses her cigarette against the heel of her sandal, before dropping it into an empty glass. She stretches her arms over her head and yawns. “I said my part. It’s up to you.” 

“Thanks,” Merlin mutters mock-saractasically and rolls his eyes. 

“Ugh,” she says again. “Idiots in love.” 

“Meddling sisters.” 

Morgana snickers. “Poppy doesn’t meddle yet.” 

“She’s manipulative. Of course she’s meddling.” 

“She’s a toddler, Merlin.” 

“She even manipulates your father. She already knows that when she starts wailing, he can’t resist her. He’s completely gaga over her.” 

Morgana rests her dark head back against the pillows and smiles. “You can’t even begin to understand how much he has changed since he married your mother.” 

“He has?” 

“Oh, yes,” Morgana says. “When Arthur and I were younger, he was always very stern with us. He made the rules and we had to follow them. There were no exceptions. He was very particular about what he wanted us to do in any situation.” She wraps a strand of hair around her finger and starts twirling it between her fingers. 

“Arthur especially had a difficult time catering to father’s expectations. They are so different in many things,” she muses. 

“So it was easier for you?” 

Morgana laughs. “I’m much more like my father. Always have been. We’re interested in the same things.” 

“Like law?” Merlin asks, once more thinking how strange it is, that it’s Morgana who’s going to follow in Uther’s footsteps. She’s in her third year at Cambridge, studying Law. 

Morgana nods and swings her legs. “But I think that in the end, Uther is maybe even more proud of Arthur for being his own man and for standing up for what he wants. He respects that.” 

“Hmmm. Yes.” Merlin agrees, thinks of the way the two men talk these days, calmly and with mutual respect. 

They are silent for a while as Morgana lights another cigarette. “I’m going to miss you, though,” she says, looking over at him with a fond look in her eyes. “Even though you’re annoying and hopelessly in love.” 

“I’m going to miss your annoying arse, too. I was actually excited about the fact that we were all living at home together there for a while, but now you need to go and move in with your boyfriend.” 

“At least Pip will get her own room. She’s way too old to sleep in our parent’s room.” 

“And Arthur will get a room he can actually work in with the skylight,” Merlin adds. 

Morgana takes a last drag from her cigarette, before dropping it into the empty glass of water, something that Merlin quite frankly finds absolutely disgusting, but he doesn’t feel like saying anything. She’s going to be putting it in the dishwasher, anyway. 

“You want to go out for ice cream until Arthur and Uther return from the store?” 

“Oddono’s?”

Morgana nods. “Let’s go.” She extends a hand and pulls Merlin up, grinning when he sways. “But we’re not getting take away. I really don’t feel like sharing. Everyone else can get their own ice cream. Just you and me.” 

“If you back off about my non-existent love-life.”

“Only if you get your shit together.” 

“I was afraid you would say that.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poem featured is Sonnet XVII by Pablo Neruda. Go read his poetry, it's so beautiful.


	15. Part 2: 2019 - Chapter 3

Of course, Merlin thinks, Arthur would bring a plus one to Gwen’s wedding. But how he was able to do so without Merlin knowing is a mystery. After all, he went over the seating with Gwen three times over the last couple of weeks and he would have definitely noticed if Arthur needed a seat for a plus one. 

Scowling, Merlin stares at the seating chart put up on an easel near the entrance, glaring at the little dot next to Arthur that says Christopher. He can’t remember putting any Christopher next to Arthur. He remembers being very determined in placing a single woman next to Arthur. Anne. Where the hell is Anne? He’s pretty sure, he placed Anne next to Arthur. Plain, heterosexual, but funny Anne, who likes to go to art shows and would have been a perfect, non-threatening table guest. 

“Forgot where you’re sitting?” Gwaine’s amused voice comes from next to him. “Or are you getting the jitters about that speech?” 

Merlin turns to his friend, unable to keep the withering glare from his face. 

“Ouch,” Gwaine winces and rubs at his chest, like Merlin shot an arrow through his heart, “whatever it is, it isn’t my fault.” 

“No,” Merlin says darkly and lets his gaze wander over to where Arthur is standing with bloody Christopher at a high table, chatting to Gwen’s mother. Gwen’s mother must have said something funny, because Arthur is tossing his head back and laughing, that loud, slightly obnoxious but also very intoxicating laugh showing a row of teeth. Next to Arthur, Christopher is smiling, looking a bit confused. Merlin wrinkles his nose and tries to suppress unfavourable thoughts about Christopher’s hipster beard or his slightly too tightly fitting suit. 

“Uhhhhh,” Gwaine whistles as he follows the line of Merlin’s gaze with his eyes. “The princess brought a date.” 

“Stop calling him that,” Merlin mutters and doesn’t feel bad when he jostles his elbow into Gwaine’s side. 

Gwaine huffs out a breath and twists sideways, evading another of Merlin’s attacks. ““But he’s a posh princess. And you’re … a frog.” 

“You’re terribly funny. Maybe you want to give the best man speech?” 

“Green-with-envy frog.” 

“Shut it.” 

“Go over and ribbit. Maybe he finally kisses you,” Gwaine says relentlessly, then narrows his eyes and checks out Christopher, letting his eyes travel up and down the length of him without any trace of subtlety. 

“Maybe I will finally punch you,” Merlin glares and reaches for Gwaine’s arm, trying to pull at him so they won’t be caught staring like two idiots. 

“Do you think he’s a bit pudgy around the waist? Or is that his suit?” Gwaine says contemplatively. 

“Who? Arthur?” Merlin says affronted. 

Next to him, Gwaine snorts. “His date, you loon. He’s good looking, though. Pudge is good, I like to hold onto something. You, on the other hand, are much too skinny. I’m actually pretty sure that’s why we only fucked twice. Your skinny hip bones are a health hazard.”

Merlin rolls his eyes but decides not to comment on that. “If you think he’s so hot, why don’t you date him?” 

“Do you think I could steal Arthur’s date out from under him?” 

“You are absolutely welcome to try,” Merlin says without any speck of remorse. 

“We’re going over there!” Gwaine decides and reaches for Merlin’s arm, pulling on him so fiercely, that Merlin takes two stumbling steps before managing to ground his feet. 

“No!” he hisses, resisting the tug of Gwaine’s hand on his arm. “Are you mad?” 

“The night is young. I want to make my move now, before you embarrass everyone with your speech.” 

“No!” Merlin insists again, but Gwaine is relentless and keeps pulling on his arm. Before it can become a very obvious and childish tug-o-war, Merlin gives in, stumbling along after Gwaine towards the other side of the room. 

“Arthur!” Gwaine crows cheerfully, then envelops Arthur in a crushing hug that causes Arthur’s eyebrows to rise almost towards his hairline. 

“Gwaine,” he presses out on a huff, looking over Gwaine’s shoulder accusingly and quite baffled at Merlin. Merlin meets Arthur’s eyes and shrugs. 

With a huge grin, Gwaine lets go of Arthur and looks expectantly at Christopher. “And you are?” 

Christopher extends his hand and says his name, but Gwaine just ignores the outstretched hand and pulls him into a hug as well. “Good to meet you, Christopher!”

Merlin sucks his bottom lip into his mouth and tries desperately not to laugh at the look of confusion on Christopher’s face. 

Arthur takes a step forward and leans closer to Merlin’s ear. “Is he drunk already?” he asks, his voice low, and Merlin shakes his head but refuses to let go off his bottom lip. 

“Gwaine is … very friendly,” Arthur says aloud, prompting Gwaine to pull back and bestow a shit-eating grin onto Arthur.

“Very,” Gwaine confirms with a waggle of his eyebrows that for some reason makes Arthur scowl. 

Clearing his throat, Merlin pulls Gwaine back to stand next to him as he would tug back a naughty dog by his leash. He wishes Gwen and Lance would finally return from their afternoon photoshoot so that this horrible, awkward reception comes to an end and they can commence with the speeches. 

“Where did you find him, Arthur?” Gwaine asks, letting his eyes travel up and down Christopher quite blatantly, his rudeness making Christopher blush and Arthur scowl in irritation.

“We met at Lance’s stag night,” Christopher mutters, looking quite helplessly at Arthur. 

“That is bloody convenient!” Gwaine says with faked delightfulness. He reaches for Merlin’s arm and pulls him forward by the label of his dress shirt. “You must meet Merlin, the gentleman in the daring rosé suit. He and Arthur are… “ Gwaine pauses for dramatic effect, then continues meaningfully, “...close. Very. Close.”

“Jesus, what is wrong with you?” Arthur hisses quietly, looking incredulously between Gwaine and Merlin. 

“I’m sorry,” Merlin winces, once more tugging on Gwaine’s suit jacket. “He… he can’t hold his drink.” 

The mock-betrayed look Gwaine gives him is enough to make Merlin blanch. 

“Suit yourself, frog,” he says, claps Merlin’s back and wanders off, probably trying to wreak havoc somewhere else.

“I’m… getting a coke from the bar,” Christopher stutters, looking between Arthur and Merlin for a moment, his brows drawn together in confusion. “Do you want something?”

Arthur shakes his head, but forces a smile that falls flat as soon as Christopher has walked out of earshot.

“Seriously, what the fuck, Merlin!” 

“It’s Gwaine!” Merlin chokes out, throwing up his hands in frustration. “I dunno.”

“As if that makes it better!” Arthur mutters. “He … he .. I don’t even know what that was!”

Merlin bites his bottom lip and looks down at his shoes. “We were just surprised that you brought a date.” 

Arthur’s mouth works for a moment, actually speechless, before he says, “Is it because I didn’t tell you?” 

“Yes,” Merlin blurts out, then corrects himself quickly. “No!”

“What now?” Arthur asks, sounding frustrated. 

“I mean, obviously, you can bring whoever you like!” Merlin says defensively.

“Right,” Arthur replies in that disbelieving tone. 

“You know, Merlin-” he starts, but is interrupted by a cheer from the other side of the room, where Lancelot and Gwen have finally arrived, both looking rosy cheeked and glowing. 

Wincing, Merlin watches Arthur take in a deep breath and compose himself, drawing all that frustration back into himself. 

“I guess we can play-fight another time,” Arthur says dispiritedly. “You have a speech to make and I have a date to save.” With that, he walks past Merlin, striding quickly over towards the bar, where Christopher is standing with his back to them, looking tense and uncomfortable. 

Merlin watches him leave, feeling like he missed another opportunity to set things right, to say something. Stupid Gwaine and his stupid loose mouth. 

The speech goes as well as could be expected. Merlin decided to keep it short and to the point, glad that he obviously manages to hit the major requirements of wedding speeches with the appropriate amounts of funny quips, self-deprecating humour and cute anecdotes about the bride. 

“I’ve known Gwen for 7 years now and I can truly say, she’s been my best friend ever since I met her. - Sorry Will. So when she asked me to be her best man, I was ecstatic about the prospect - exempting seating arrangements, dress rehearsals and visits to flower shops, obviously. But I didn’t realize I would be up here, standing in front of you, expected to give a speech until 3 weeks ago. Thanks, Arthur, for pointing that out and sending me into a frenzied panic, by the way,” he says to good-natured laughter, and Arthur salutes him from two tables over, sending him a grin. 

Merlin rubs a hand over the sweaty back of his neck, where his hair curls in the heat. It’s about 32 C today and despite every single window being opened in the venue to allow the breeze to bring cooler air into the building, he’s sweating in his velvet suit. Merlin clears his throat, allowing the laughter to peter out and continues, telling the anecdote about Lance putting his number into Gwen’s phone. 

“He obviously was planning this wedding from the get-go!” he says mock-accusingly. “I mean, can you blame him? Look at her!” Merlin jerks his thumb at Gwen, who’s sitting beside him, all but bouncing on her chair and Gwen giggles happily, reaching for his arm and petting it. She looks beautiful in her light, rockabilly style gown, her soft curls pinned up in a messy updo. Her brown eyes are shining and she’s been beaming all day, glowing from within. Merlin loves seeing her that happy. 

“Lance, on the other hand… I mean, you’re good looking, but I’m pretty sure she could do better, mate, so hold on tight to her! There’s easily 3 guys in this room that are hotter than you -” here everyone starts laughing, because Lancelot is just ridiculously good looking, - “Will, obviously! -” Merlin says and Will gets up and gives the cheering audience a little bow and blows Merlin a kiss, “- and Gwaine, you can’t not love a man with such glorious hair! - and Arthur’s a real snack - Gwen’s going to be sorry not to snatch him…” 

He trails off, because the only person not laughing is Arthur, who is looking back at him with a little displeased frown between his eyebrows, his mouth set in a thin, unimpressed line. Clearing his throat nervously, Merlin looks down at his notes, glad that everyone else is still chortling with laughter. He gives a couple of more brief anecdotes, making everyone awww when he tells the story of how Lance carried home a drunk Gwen firemen-style, before coming towards the end of his speech. 

“Everyone told me beforehand that I was going to be deadly embarrassing during my speech, so to cater to these expectations, I will say a couple more things: We should all be so lucky to have a love in our lives like the one Gwen and Lancelot share. We should all be so lucky to have such a connection to another human being, with so much mutual respect and adoration.” 

Merlin can’t help but glance into Arthur’s direction, shivering a bit when their eyes meet, feeling exposed and vulnerable. He worries his lip as he reaches for his glass and raises it in a toast, giving the other wedding guests ample time to pick up their glasses too. At the other table, Christopher is putting a hand on Arthur’s arm, causing Arthur to break eye contact and lean closer as Christopher whispers something into his ear. 

The gesture makes Merlin grit his teeth and it brings back the feeling of resentment whenever he has seen Arthur with another one of his boyfriends over the years. It boils in his stomach like heartburn, rising like acid in his throat. 

His hand shakes when he is finally able to continue. “I salute you, Gwen, for being adventurous enough to embark on this journey with Lance, and Lance, I’m insanely jealous you’re brave enough to confess your feelings to the person you love, so… this fairytale toast is to you. May you live happily ever after!“ 

Laughter follows as everyone in the room echoes Merlin’s words before sipping from their glasses. Relieved that the speech is over, Merlin sinks into his chair, feeling his face blush now that the tension leaves him. 

“Oh my God,” Gwen gushes and throws her arms around him, pressing her face to his neck, “it’s such a pity you’re gay, because I’m completely questioning marrying Lance now.” She giggles and presses a kiss to his cheek, her eyes a little misty when she draws back. “Thank you.” 

“I’m just glad it’s over,” Merlin says, feeling flustered. He drains his glass and sets it down on the table carefully. His hands are still trembling with the last jitters of nerves, and he places them in his lap underneath the table. When he takes a look around, people are talking among themselves and nobody is looking his way anymore. Christopher is still whispering in Arthur’s ear and Merlin’s hands ball into fists, his fingers sweaty and feeling swollen from the heat.

Unbidden, he remembers watching Mordred kiss Arthur on that New Year’s Eve long ago. It had hurt and it had made him feel inadequate and angry and confused. It had made him seek Arthur out in the kitchen later, but his feelings had been so chaotic, so all over the place that he hadn’t been able to make much sense of anything. He was hurt and kissing Arthur had seemed like the balm to soothe that ache but it had been like putting a tiny plaster on a gaping wound, unfit to cover or contain the damage.

Next to Lance, Leon rises from his chair and clears his throat, about to give his speech as the groom’s best man. His hair looks just as chaotic and fluffy as always, despite numerous attempts to tame it earlier that morning and his cheeks are ruddy from the heat and probably a bit from the nerves. 

Merlin feels himself zoning out half-way through the speech (which he heard three times already during rehearsals), his eyes again and again drawn back to where Arthur is sitting next to Christopher, watching Leon give his toast. 

He should be sitting with me, Merlin thinks irrationally. I should have put him next to me. 

He thinks of Morgana’s words from a couple of weeks ago, about how he should finally do something or someone else would come and take Arthur away. Merlin narrows his eyes at Christopher and wonders if this is the moment where it happens. It hits him then, that he can’t watch Arthur fall in love with someone else, that he has to do something, come clean, no matter how scary it is. If he’s wrong and Arthur is really over him, at least he tried and knows that he doesn’t stand a chance. But he can’t stand here and do nothing as Arthur slips away from him.

The stage is small, just a tiny space cleared at the smaller side of the hall, but somehow they managed to set up their equipment for the concert. Gwen and Lance could have hired a real wedding band, but opted for a brief _i am magic_ set and a regular dj afterwards to appease the older generation instead. 

Gwen is supposed to make the introduction and then later join them on stage for a couple of songs and they meet beforehand at a small table on the right side of the stage to go over the setlist once more. 

“Here,” Merlin mutters as he distributes the short setlist between the band members, pressing the last sheet into Gwen’s waiting hands. He sucks his bottom lip into his mouth and busies himself with recapping the permanent marker he used to make last-minute alterations to the setlist on the printed out papers, hoping nobody will say a word about the changes. 

When Gwen gasps quite audibly, he knows he hasn’t stood a chance in hell. 

“Merlin,” she says softly, sounding a bit taken aback, “are you sure about this?” 

When Merlin looks up, she’s holding the set-list up, like she isn’t quite sure if Merlin is aware of the questionable changes he made. Seeing it for himself, the way he had boldly struck a line through one of the songs and scribbled the title of another next to it, makes it suddenly feel much more real and Merlin feels a thrill of adrenaline run through him. He feels a little sick to his stomach, a little weak in the knees, but at Gwen’s questioning gaze, Merlin nods. 

“Yes,” he grits out. “We’re playing that song.” 

Gwen looks a complicated mix of surprised and compassionate, but it’s Will who steps around the table and quietly pulls Merlin aside. 

“Seriously, Merlin?” he mumbles, turning Merlin to face away from the room, “you want to sing the ‘Arthur Song’? You think that’s a good idea?” 

Merlin swallows, hating how Will’s words make him doubt his decision all over again. “Yes. People love that song. Gwen loves that song.” 

Will rolls his eyes and grips his shoulder, his fingers digging into Merlin’s muscles harshly. “You usually refuse to play this song when Arthur is around. So why do you think it’s a good time to play it now?” 

Merlin takes a deep breath and shrugs. “Maybe it’s just time to play the song where he can hear it. Maybe he won’t think anything about it. Maybe… maybe he will.” 

“Ugh, you sod,” Will huffs, but he sounds fond and he pulls Merlin into a hug roughly, patting his back. “If you want an out, you just look at me and shake your head and we’ll do the other song.” 

“Thanks,” Merlin mumbles into Will’s neck, breathing in his familiar scent. 

“Fool,” Will mutters again as he lets him go, but he’s grinning and Merlin feels instantly better, knowing that Will is going to have his back, no matter what happens. 

They take the stage for their 45 minutes set at 9.30 and Gwen climbs on stage to give their introduction, something that is only beneficial to the maybe 10 people who haven’t been to any of their concerts. Merlin quietly lets his gaze sweep over the 100 odd people in the room, expectantly looking towards the stage, seeing more of their friends than usually manage to come to any of their concerts. It should be calming, but it does the exact opposite. He seeks out Arthur and finds him with Morgana and Leon standing by one of the large doors to the patio. 

He doesn’t have much time to panic, because Gwen wishes everyone a great night, and with a last look at Merlin, hops off the stage and bounds over to her husband. 

Swallowing, Merlin once more makes sure that all his loop pedals are working, then gives a nod towards Gilli on the drums. As always, Gilli waits for everyone to briefly check in with him, before quietly counting in the start. As soon as they start playing, Merlin feels the familiar calm wash over him, bringing him right into the zone where he’s so focused on his performance that he has no time to think about anything else. 

He slips into the comfortable place where he almost moves on autopilot, where he doesn’t have to think, just feel. Since Mordred dropped out of the band 4 years ago, Merlin sings most of the songs, with Freya and Will mostly offering backing vocals. It’s not something he thought he would ever do, sing the lead, but when Mordred left, there was no one else to take over his parts. Fortunately, he has gotten better with practice and his voice has matured a bit and there’s also the bonus of writing for his own voice which allows him to make sure he sounds okay. 

They run through an energetic first half of their brief show, one song seamlessly flowing into the next and it’s only when they make a small break to catch their breath and sip some water, that Merlin really looks at their audience. It’s not a concert venue, but people are making the most of it, and there’s so much genuine enthusiasm radiating from them that he can’t help but smile, the adrenaline making his grin wide and almost ache. 

Gwen climbs back on stage to the cheer of the wedding guests and smiling, Gilli allows her to take his place at the drums, before he walks over to where he had sat up a couple of percussion instruments earlier for him to use while Gwen is taking the spotlight.

Freya reaches for her mike and talks to bridge the pause, as always having an easy rapport with the audience and Merlin shrugs out of his suit jacket, tossing it over a nearby chair. He has time to roll up his sleeves and loosen his slim tie, before Freya looks into his direction questioningly. 

They launch into their second part of the set-list, alternating between energetic and quieter songs, not that there are that many of them. It’s brilliant playing with Gwen again and while they rehearsed a couple of times beforehand, playing a real concert with her is different. Merlin feels himself start to sweat in anticipation of the song he forced onto the list at the end of their concert, his calm shattered. He messes up a couple of lines, but manages to catch himself. It’s silly, he tells himself, half of his songs are probably about Arthur and he never has a problem with performing them. But it’s this song especially, the one he never dares to sing because it’s just so obvious, that makes him feel shaky. In the past he had even thought about altering the lyrics, but something has always kept him from doing so. It didn’t help that the audience always reacted very well to the song, maybe because he usually felt raw singing it. 

During the second to last song, he lets his gaze sweep the audience, seeking out Arthur, relieved when he finds him still standing by the wide open doors, not quite engaging with the concert, but nonetheless focused. On him. 

Nervously, Merlin licks his lips and looks away to concentrate on the complicated loop he’s replaying and which he doesn’t want to mess up because his foot is shaky. The song is over too quickly and sickness piles nervously in the pit of Merlin’s belly. When he glances up from his keyboard, he finds Will, Gwen and Freya look at him expectantly, neither of them reacting to the applause. Merlin knows it's his chance for an out and he only needs to shake his head and they will play their original choice. His stomach roils in nauseous waves and he feels like running, but then he thinks of watching Christopher put his hand on Arthur’s arm this afternoon, of eating ice cream in the kitchen and reading poetry in the hammock with Arthur’s body warm against his side and instead of shaking his head, he gives a brief nod and turns to adjust the setting on his board. 

The song starts out simple, more simple than most of their songs, and not as layered as many of the energetic crowd pleasers, but it builds, a mixture of loop upon loop until the other instruments come in, gently at first, then more forcefully during the second chorus. 

Merlin takes a deep breath to steel himself, hears it rattle over the microphone in a hiss and starts singing, feeling flayed open for everyone to see, his heart beating madly. 

_ I walk the cold night on New Year’s Eve _

_ Left the party ten minutes to twelve, _

_ I want to be anywhere else but here _

_ Anywhere else but now  _

_ Anywhere else but now  
_

_ I’m good with messes _

_ But not just of the fun kind  _

_ I’m bold with words _

_ But not when they count _

_ I say we’re oh so casual  _

_ But it’s your name I shout out  
_

_ I take your hand in the gallery, _

_ On that mountain top, in your bed, _

_ I don’t know why I hold on so tight _

_ Only - I know it all _

_ I know it all  
_

When he looks up from staring down at his fingers moving over the keys, aware that his voice is hoarser than usual because of his nervousness, everything is like always. Everyone is reacting to the song the same way they always are. The world isn’t ending, the building isn’t coming down. Only when Merlin let’s his eyes seek out Arthur in the crowd does he feel the electric jolt of the thrill. Arthur is still standing by the doors, but he looks flummoxed. 

Merlin bites his lip, trying to calm the violent beating of his heart. It’s exhilarating laying it all out there - it feels like someone is pulling the floor out from under his feet, but he has no choice now but to carry on. The realization that Arthur knows that he’s talking about him is sending spikes of panic through him. 

_ You are the cause of my frustration, _

_ so violent we meet, so violent we part,  _

_ The wrong time and the wrong words,  _

_ the not quite absent heart  _

_ the not quite absent heart  _

The second chorus comes with the onset of Gwen’s drums and Freya’s guitar, a backing that suddenly feels almost substantial. It’s a relief, like they are physically supporting him. His loops have finished recording and he only needs to switch the layers of and on, the demanding slow build up making way for a more sweeping carpet of sound. His gaze finds Arthur’s again, and it might have been cheesy singing a song for him, but it only feels like the right thing to do, no matter what happens.

_ I’m good with messes _

_ But not just of the fun kind  _

_ I’m bold with words _

_ But not when they count _

_ I tell you it’s all just for fun _

_ But it’s a perfect white lie  _

_ There’s rain outside our window at dawn, _

_ Thunder roars from above and you laugh, _

_ Allow my ill-fitted surrogates for speech,  _

_ Try to explain it all  _

_ Try to explain it all _

_ We went too far, too fast, too hard, _

_ I run from your words, they paralyze me, _

_ I spill dirty secrets all but one, _

_ The fool in the end, that’s me _

_ Foolish me _

The song is coming to an end and with it, the nervousness returns, because when it’s over, something is going to happen. Something has to happen. Merlin comprehends with shocked realisation, that he absolutely has no idea what, that he didn’t plan ahead, that he just played it by gut. Panic wells up in him again and he suddenly wishes he hadn’t been so stupidly brave. Across the room, Arthur is still staring at him, an unreadable expression on his face and his reaction makes Merlin feel faint with worry. 

He somehow manages to sing the last chorus, his voice cracking to frantic thoughts of what comes now. 

__

_ I’m good with messes _

_ But not just of the fun kind  _

_ I’m bold with words _

_ But not when they count _

_ I wish I had the guts to tell you _

_ But I keep shooting myself down, down, down... _

The song hasn’t faded out yet, when Arthur suddenly starts moving, but it isn’t forward, it isn’t to clap and cheer with the rest of their friends, but it is to turn around and walk out the door onto the patio, vanishing from Merlin’s sight. 

“Shit!” Merlin says and Gwaine, the idiot, didn’t cut the mike yet, so it rings out over the whistles and cheers, but he has no time to feel embarrassed about it, because his feet are moving, carrying him forward. In his haste, his feet entangle with a cable and he trips, before managing to hop free, stumbling off the stage and nearly falling onto his face. Something crashes to the floor behind him, but Merlin doesn’t care as he scrambles upright, his eyes set on the empty doorway where Arthur has slipped out into the night. 

He hears Freya over the soundsystem, as always perfectly equipped to deal with crisis as she tells everyone how fantastic an audience they were to thunderous cheers and claps. Merlin makes his way hastily through the crowd, relieved that people are getting distracted by Gwen announcing while the band might be finished for tonight, she has one more song in her. When he steps out onto the patio, the night air hits his sweaty skin with a cool breeze. 

His breath is coming forcefully and he stops, disoriented for a bit, turning to the left, then to the right, until he spots Arthur, sitting on the stone balustrade with his feet dangling. The last bit of nerve Merlin possesses takes a nose-dive into his stomach. 


	16. Part 2: 2019 - Chapter 4

With his heart beating wildly, Merlin takes a step forward, then another, making his feet go to where he suddenly doesn’t want to be anymore. When he comes to stand in front of Arthur, he’s panting, all his earlier bravado suddenly seeming ill-advised. 

At his approach, Arthur looks up from staring at his shoelaces. There’s no surprise on his face at seeing Merlin, but he still looks somewhat thrown off his game, his features set in a complicated frown. 

“I’m sorry,” Merlin blurts out and it comes out hoarse and breathless. 

“That song,” Arthur says slowly, and his eyes feel heavy where they land on Merlin’s face, trying to read his expression. “I don’t understand…” he trails off, looking puzzled. 

“It’s really not difficult.” Merlin briefly closes his eyes and takes another deep breath, bracing himself to say the words out loud, finally after all this time. “I love you. I’m in love with you.” His voice cracks again because he can barely breathe and there’s a pain in his chest that might be fear of rejection or lack of oxygen. 

Arthur doesn’t say anything, just stares at a place somewhere over Merlin’s shoulder, his mouth slightly parted, gaze empty. 

“Fuck, will you just say something!” It bursts out of Merlin in a bout of anger just as the adrenaline soars again. He did it, he said the impossible words, he laid it all out there, and Arthur is silent. It riles him, because he’s standing stripped off every protective layer he ever wrapped around himself and it takes every ounce of willpower not to turn around and run away. 

Arthur’s gaze focuses on him, making him shiver. There’s the slightest twitch around Arthur’s lips, but Merlin doesn’t dare try to read that expression at all in case he gets it wrong. 

“You’re in love with me?” Arthur asks and it sounds both challenging and wondrous. He’s gnawing on his bottom lip, eyes dancing all over Merlin’s face. 

Merlin huffs out a breath and swallows, goosebumps rising up his spine and making the fine hair on his forearms stand at attention even though it’s still a very balmy 25 degrees outside. “I have been for years,” he chokes out and when Arthur wrinkles his nose in disbelief, adds, “ever since… ever since we went to Wales. Ever since I woke up that first morning after our parents’ wedding and you fled the bed. Maybe even since you nearly kissed me in the kitchen. I… I have no idea. A long time, anyway.” 

At his words, Arthur snorts out a bitter laugh and wipes a hand over his face. “You… you... wow, you fucking lied to me.” 

Merlin swallows the bile that rises in his throat and takes a step forward, placing his hand on Arthur’s thigh, needing to touch him. Underneath the soft fabric of his chambray suit, Arthur’s leg feels warm and muscular. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m so sorry. I was confused and scared and I had never felt like this before or since.” 

He is unable to look up, instead glances down where his hand rests on Arthur’s thigh, unmoving. He’s waiting for Arthur to shrug him off, but Arthur doesn’t move. From so close, Merlin can hear him breathing, steady and slow inhales and exhales. The moment drags and drags and then, just when Merlin wonders if he should pull back, Arthur’s hand closes over his, turning it over palm up. Arthur’s finger is trailing over the rise of his thumb, tickling along the life line, then stroking along his digits. The touch is gentle but it fires every nerve in Merlin’s body, sending confused threads of arousal shooting everywhere at once, like fireworks exploding in the night sky. His mouth goes annoyingly dry and his breath shivers out of him on a shaky exhale. 

He realises Arthur isn’t looking at his hand any longer, but at his downturned face instead, and when he glances up and meets Arthur’s eyes, Arthur is biting his lip again, his gaze fixed on Merlin’s mouth, his thumb still stroking his skin ever so softly. 

“You’re a filthy liar,” Arthur murmurs, but the heat in his tone isn’t anger.

“Yes,” Merlin agrees, because with Arthur looking at him like that he would probably consent to anything, murder, if necessary. 

Merlin isn’t sure who bridges the gap between their bodies, if Arthur pulls him forward or if he steps into Arthur’s space out of his own volition, but the next moment he’s standing between Arthur’s parted legs and they are kissing, Arthur’s hands fisted in his hair, his own finding their place on the side of Arthur’s neck, fingers cradling his face. 

If there were fireworks before, it’s nothing compared to how his body panics, completely overwhelmed with the reality of Arthur’s lips on his. Groaning, Merlin tilts his head and parts his lips, shivering when Arthur’s tongue meets his own, stroking slowly and so familiar against his. Arthur’s moan vibrates into his mouth and he tugs harshly on the curls at the nape of Merlin’s neck, crowding closer, closer. He still tastes the same, kisses the same, slow and hot. His touch sends tingles down Merlin’s spine and makes his brain fuzzy. 

They break apart for air at the same time, gasping for breath. Against Merlin’s wet mouth puffs Arthur’s warm breath, like a caress.

“Fuck, I thought I remembered it wrong,” Arthur pants out, sounding slightly drunk. 

Merlin giggles, embarrassed about the sound only for a second because Arthur pulls him back in, mouth soft as he places open-mouthed, slow kisses onto Merlin’s lips. It’s driving Merlin insane, those wet, gentle brushes of Arthur’s mouth and he surges forward, biting down hard on Arthur’s bottom lip and sucking it into his mouth. Arthur groans, his mouth falling open, his fingers trembling as he strokes Merlin’s cheek and traces the shell of his ear. 

When they move apart this time, it’s Arthur who laughs, loud and exhilarated. 

“What?” Merlin asks, unable to resist leaning in and pressing another small kiss against the corner of Arthur’s smiling mouth. 

“Just…” Arthur says and shrugs and there’s red creeping up the side of his face. “I’ve wanted to kiss you for so long. I feel a bit … giddy.” He looks a bit embarrassed and also ridiculously beautiful with his shining eyes and that soft, stupid grin and Merlin feels his racing heart slow to a slightly different, if any less insistent beat. 

He leans forward to kiss Arthur again, grinning when Arthur snorts against his lips, before reaching for his shirt and pulling him closer. Merlin slips his hand from Arthur’s neck and lets them travel underneath Arthur’s jacket, over his slightly damp dress shirt. Underneath the thin material, Arthur’s skin beckons with heat and tight muscle and Merlin pulls at the fabric, letting his hands slip beneath it. 

Arthur hisses at the touch and fists his hands into Merlin’s shirt, tugging him forward until they are all but plastered against each other, Arthur’s thighs bracketing his hips. Arthur feels incredible, their bodies still slotting together so easily. 

Merlin doesn’t know how much time has passed when he next pulls back, but he’s been all but dry humping Arthur on the stone balustrade, and there’s still music filtering out of the open doors behind them, even though Gwen finished the _i am magic_ set, reminding him of where they are. 

“We should …” he says, pulling his hand reluctantly from out underneath Arthur’s shirt with regret. 

“Yes,” Arthur agrees hoarsely. His eyes are wide and blown and he licks his swollen lips and it almost makes Merlin dive in again. Instead, he takes a step backward, putting some distance between their bodies, trying to compose himself. It’s not easy, because Arthur looks dishevelled, his hair in disarray from Merlin’s fingers, his suit rumpled, dress shirt half hanging out of his trousers. There’s a visible bulge in the front of his suit trousers and Merlin flexes his fingers involuntarily and tries no to stare. He itches to reach out and touch, cup Arthur’s erection in his hand and feel the beat of his pulse against his palm.

Arthur notes anyway. “Maybe… we should go somewhere else,” he suggests and his voice sounds raw. 

Merlin groans at the suggestion. There’s hardly anything he wants more and Arthur is the perfect temptation. It would be so easy to drag Arthur back to his room and his face flushes just thinking of all the things he wants to do to Arthur. 

“I want to. But… “ he swallows, because it’s hard refusing Arthur, if only for now. “... it’s still my best friend’s wedding. And I guess I have to apologise for making it about me back there for a moment.” 

Arthur laughs and rolls his eyes. “Don’t tell me you made a scene going after me…” 

Flushing, Merlin shrugs his shoulders and Arthur laughs again.

“Oh, you did… Your impulse control‘s always been shit.” 

Arthur is still grinning, looking way too amused, and Merlin steps forward again, placing one hand on Arthur’s chest, a gesture that shuts up Arthur in a heartbeat. With satisfaction, Merlin notes how Arthur’s eyes widen and his breath quickens. 

“You have no idea how much I want to be inside of you,” Merlin murmurs, feeling the heat of Arthur’s skin seep through his shirt and into his palm. Arthur sucks in a breath, a small hitch of a moan and when Merlin casts his eyes upwards, Arthur looks wrecked. “But right now,” he continues, voice low, “I want to get back in there and celebrate with Gwen and brag about how I pulled the hottest bloke in this place.” 

Arthur’s startled laugh makes Merlin grin and he takes a step back, his hand slipping from Arthur’s chest. Arthur’s smile makes way for a contemplative expression. 

“You want that?” he asks softly. “Go back inside… with me?” He looks puzzled, like Merlin said something he didn’t expect. 

Biting his lip, Merlin nods. “I want to. If you want to. Have a drink. Chat with our friends. Hold your hand in public. Dance a bit. Stare at you and think about all the ways I’m going to make you come later.”

“Bloody hell,” Arthur huffs, “you’re not helping my hard-on go down.” 

Merlin quirks his lips and reaches for his hand, slipping his fingers between Arthur’s, like he has wanted to do so many times in the past. “I will try to behave.” 

Snorting, Arthur slips from the balustrade. “Somehow you saying that isn’t that convincing.”

“You know it,” Merlin says, feeling a stupid grin tug on his face at the way Arthur’s fingers tangle with his. The touch makes heat sweep through his body from head to toe. Who knew something so small could feel so significant?

“All right. You’ll behave and I’ll be sure to misbehave a lot - later.” 

It’s Merlin who lets out a startled laugh, realising he forgot how playful Arthur could be. “Let’s go, I need a drink before grovelling at Gwen’s feet,” he says and pulls Arthur towards the open doors. He’s surprised when Arthur doesn’t put up any resistance. 

They make their way slowly towards the bar, Merlin ahead, acutely aware of Arthur’s hand in his, Arthur following where he leads. Music is playing from the speakers and people are dancing. Merlin can glimpse Gwen and Lancelot in the middle, swaying to a Glen Hasard song, eyes on each other. Gwen is beaming up at Lance with a soft, utterly besotted smile.

Merlin bites his lip and chances a glance at Arthur, feeling a little thrill to find Arthur’s eyes on him, their fingers still intertwined. He can’t help the grin that steals on his face and he ducks his head and keeps walking, winding through the thong of people standing around on the corner of the dancefloor. They easily find a place at the bar and Merlin pulls Arthur onto a high chair next to him and waves the waiter over to order them drinks. 

“You wrote a song… about me,” Arthur says slowly when the waiter has left them to fill their orders. He sounds smug and wondrous, like he can’t believe that Merlin would do such a thing. 

Merlin feels his lips quirk and he turns in his seat, bumping his knees into Arthur’s thigh. “Not just one. This is just… the most obvious.” 

Arthur’s reaction is the best thing he has ever seen, because Arthur blushes and looks away and smiles. “You wrote _songs_ about me,” Arthur repeats softly and pleased. 

“Yes.” 

“I want to listen to every one of them,” Arthur says and turns on his chair until he’s facing Merlin, pushing one of his knees between Merlin parted ones so he can lean in closer. 

“Not all of them are good,” Merlin mutters and grimaces, thinking of some of the more embarrassing of his creations. 

“You let me decide that,” Arthur replies, and he’s grinning now, obviously delighted with Merlin’s answer. “How many are there?” he asks and scoots closer, his eyes never leaving Merlin’s face. 

“Some. Also, not all are favourable,” Merlin admits, shivering beneath Arthur’s intense gaze. “I had some very angry phases, too.” 

Arthur laughs. “Have I heard any of them?” 

It’s Merlin’s turn to flush and he nods. “A couple, I guess. At least one more today.”

“Hmmm,” Arthur makes and looks at Merlin contemplatively. 

“You’re trying to figure out which, right?” 

“I will eventually make you play all of them for me, even the embarrassing ones. Even the angry ones,” Arthur says with determination, his eyes glinting. 

“You’ll destroy the magic,” Merlin complains. “You should be satisfied with the one good one.” 

“I’m greedy,” Arthur grins and shifts still closer on the chair, his knee bumping the inside of Merlin’s thigh. 

“You’re flirting with me,” Merlin gasps a little breathlessly.

“Is it working?” 

Merlin rolls his eyes but deems the question not deserving an answer. Their drinks arrive and he reaches for his water, wetting his dry mouth. When he puts the glass back down, Arthur’s hand lies on the table top next to his, their fingers almost touching. Merlin stretches his fingers and moves them to his right, watching the tips bump against Arthur’s on the table top. 

“I’m so sorry about everything that happened…” he says softly. “I … I was such an arsehole to you.” 

Arthur sniffs and doesn’t look up but instead watches their fingers tangle on the bar. “My memories of that time are really…” he pauses and trails his fingers over Merlin’s index finger, rubbing across his knuckles, “... intense.” 

“Yeah,” Merlin breathes and swallows, knowing exactly what Arthur means. It’s been five years, but sometimes it feels like every touch, every word is burned into his consciousness. 

“Seeing you so often now was pretty crazy,” Arthur whispers. “Like I could remember everything and you suddenly were everywhere. All the time.” 

Merlin sucks in a breath, watching with half-lidded eyes as Arthur plays with his finger, like he can’t help but touch him somehow. They have moved so close together that Merlin can feel Arthur’s warm breath stir the fine hairs on his neck. He turns his head and wets his lips, feeling his heart speed up as he stares at Arthur’s mouth. 

“Finally!” Gwaine says much too loudly and slams his hand down onto Merlin’s shoulder, startling him and making him nearly fall from the high chair. “There’s the Happy Prince. I was fearing you’d stay a frog forever!”

“Fuck,” Merlin mutters and reaches for the bar to steady himself. “You’re an arsehole, Gwaine,” he complains, knowing he must have flushed beet-red. 

Gwaine just grins and ignores the murderous looks Merlin is shooting him. “Good for you, Princess,” he says and slams his other hand on Arthur’s shoulder. “I see you lost Christopher. If you point me into his direction, I’ll happily pick up the pieces.” 

Arthur looks startled for a moment, like he completely forgot that he came here with someone other than Merlin. “He… I have no idea where he is,” he finally admits and frowns, before taking a look around and scanning the room with his eyes. 

“Date didn’t go so well, huh?” Gwaine says mock-compassionate, but he winks at Merlin. “Don’t worry, I think the night is going fine for you, Princess. If you like skinny fucks, obviously.” 

“Piss off, Gwaine,” Merlin groans and shoves at his friend’s shoulder, feeling no regret when Gwaine stumbles.

“Oh, do carry on! I’ll make sure Christopher is well taken care of,” Gwaine says with a leer and a wave, then saunters off. 

Merlin is surprised to find Arthur laugh, like he can’t believe Gwaine is for real. “Shit,” he says and giggles. 

“I don’t know why i’m friends with him. He’s also a shit sound technician.” 

“He has great hair,” Arthur allows then starts giggling again. 

“About the only thing he has going for him, though.” 

Arthur laughs again and Merlin thinks he might be very much in love with Arthur’s laugh. He looks beautiful when he smiles, but devastatingly gorgeous when he tosses his head back like that and guffaws out loud, uninhibited and joyous. 

The music changes to a Band of Horses song and it takes Merlin only 2 seconds to make a decision.

“Dance with me,” he demands, hopping from the barstool and extending his hand in invitation. 

“I always expected you to be a closet romantic,” Arthur says gleefully, but he takes the offered hand and allows Merlin to pull him towards an empty space on the dancefloor. 

For a moment, they shuffle around awkwardly, because Arthur doesn’t know where to put his hands until Merlin loosely wraps his arms around Arthur’s neck and Arthur gets the hint to place them on Merlin’s hips. When Merlin starts moving, Arthur stumbles along, nearly stepping on his foot. 

“You’re still total shit at dancing,” Merlin observes with fond amusement, carefully navigating them away from another dancing couple to avoid them crashing into someone else. 

“You’re ruining the mood,” Arthur mutters back, but he lets Merlin guide him and gets with the programm. After another couple of awkward steps, they find a rhythm, swaying to the music, which honestly, is good enough for Merlin. Once he feels like Arthur can keep the rhythm, he loosens one arm from around Arthur’s neck and places it flat on Arthur’s chest, enjoying the heat seeping from Arthur’s body and the beat of his heart against his palm, steady and arousing. Their similar height means their faces are inches apart. Arthur’s breath is warm on his face and Merlin sucks his bottom lip into his mouth, worrying it with his teeth as he watches Arthur’s eyes flicker down to his mouth. 

“This is not a happy song,” Arthur observes, but he sounds like he doesn’t much care, his eyes half-lidded, still with that same pleased smile on his face. 

“It is now,” Merlin says, feeling the answering tug of his own grin pulling at the corner of his mouth.

“It is now,” Arthur agrees and Merlin swallows and closing his eyes, allows his forehead to come to rest against Arthur’s, feeling like maybe he’s going to wake up any moment now and wonder what kind of ridiculous dream he was having. It’s too real though, the wash of Arthur’s breath over his wet mouth and when he opens his eyes, Arthur is staring at him from up close. 

“I’m going to kiss you. In case you don’t want to be kissed - in front of everyone -, you should really say something,” Arthur says hoarsely and they stumble as he just stops moving and doesn’t really wait for an answer, his hands sliding into Merlin’s hair. 

“Fuck,” Merlin moans, allowing Arthur to plunder his mouth, his fingers digging into the fabric of Arthur’s shirt where his hand is still wedged between them. Arthur kisses him thoroughly, not caring that they are in the middle of a dancefloor. 

The song fades out, the music changes into something more rhythmic and electronic, but Arthur is still kissing him like nothing else matters, not changing the pace at all. It’s only when someone bumps into them from behind with flailing limbs, that they break apart, panting. Arthur looks like he can’t quite believe he did that, his mouth quirks into an amused, puzzled smile. 

Merlin clears his throat and evades a girl half his size almost knocking him over with one of her dance moves. 

“It’s getting dangerous out here,” Arthur says and slides his hand down Merlin’s arm to reach for his fingers, pulling him towards the edge of the dancefloor. 

“I thought we were going to dance,” Merlin protests half-heartedly, but allows Arthur to drag him over to the seating area. 

“No more dancing to slow songs,” Arthur says as he stops and turns, making Merlin nearly barrel into him. “I can’t promise I won’t just start undressing you right there otherwise.” 

“Okay,” Merlin says feebly, because the thought of Arthur pulling his clothes off makes him weak-kneed. 

“We will wait for safer songs.”

“Like safer sex?” Merlin quips stupidly, grinning at the less than impressed glare Arthur sends him. 

“You’re not allowed to talk about sex. You’re also not allowed to look so sexy. Stop it,” Arthur mutters, still glaring. 

Grinning, Merlin follows Arthur to where Gwen is sitting at their table, feet up in Lance’s lap, groaning as her brand-new husband is kneading the arch of her foot. 

“Someone wants to apologise for causing a scene,” Arthur announces and pushes Merlin in front of him, all but hauling him at Gwen. 

“Oh my God,” Gwen squeals, her aching feet forgotten as she nearly kicks Lance in the face when she moves and flings herself into Merlin’s arms. “Oh my God,” she breathes again. “I saw you guys. It was so sweet.” 

“Ugh,” Merlin complains, because Gwen can be heavy when she clings to him and he also doesn’t particularly like being called sweet. 

“Idiot,” she says fondly. 

“He’s right, though,” he murmurs, breathing in the apple blossom scent of her hair, before drawing back and holding her at arms’ length. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have run off like that. It was a pretty shit move.“ 

“Oh, I totally understand,” Gwen says, shooting a sidelong glance at Arthur. “I would have done the same.” 

She hugs Merlin again, then reaches for his hand, before looking at Arthur. “I’m going to steal him away now, because I want to dance with my best man and have him tell me every little detail, but I promise to bring him back in one piece.” 

Arthur makes a go on gesture, but Gwen is already pulling Merlin back towards the dancefloor. 

“What about your feet?” Lancelot asks, frowning, waving Gwen’s abandoned stilettos in his hand. 

“No more shoes!” Gwen crows happily, and Merlin laughs, following her as she weaves through the other dancers.

Merlin wakes to the soft touch of a mouth on the nape of his neck, a tickling, warm sensation that sends shivers down his back and pools heatedly in his groin. He slowly blinks his eyes open, battling against sleep, arousal making him feel warm and slow. 

“‘M sorry,” Arthur murmurs from somewhere behind him, his mouth brushing his ear, “I can’t resist.” A kiss is pressed against the shell of his ear, Arthur’s tongue tracing along the curved muscle before slipping inside. 

Breath leaves Merlin in a hitch and he moans softly, then slowly turns over, rolling from his belly to his back, Arthur shifting behind him. 

“Mornin’,” Arthur says smiling, his blond hair dishevelled, blue eyes bright with the soft morning light. It’s a ridiculously good view and Merlin’s heart skips a beat as he realises that he’s indeed here, together in bed, with Arthur. 

“Mhmmm,” Merlin sighs and stretches his hands overhead, noting with delight that Arthur’s eyes are zeroing in on the way his body goes taut, then relaxes. 

“I’m sorry I woke you.” Arthur reaches out and smoothes a warm palm slowly over Merlin’s stomach upward, eyes tracking the path of his fingers. 

“No, you’re not,” Merlin says hoarsely, grinning when Arthur leans down to press a kiss against one of his pectorals. 

“No, I’m not,” Arthur murmurs against his skin, sounding unapologetic and distracted as he trails open-mouthed kisses down Merlin’s side, making Merlin suck in a soft breath. He gives a last licking kiss to Merlin’s belly, before placing his chin carefully on Merlin’s sternum, biting his lip as he looks up from below. 

Merlin feels his smile grow at the way Arthur is looking at him contemplatively and reaches out, threading a hand into the soft stands of Arthur’s hair. He loves the feel of them sliding through his fingers. “Now that I’m awake, we should -” 

“Yes,” Arthur says, his eagerness making Merlin laugh.

“You don’t even know what I was going to say!” Merlin says mock-offended, tousling Arthur’s hair and enjoying how it sticks up messily as a result, making Arthur look boyish and mischievous. 

Grinning, Arthur pushes himself up onto his elbows and moves in for a kiss. “Fuck. You were going to say fuck,” he whispers as he draws back briefly, eyes glinting with amusement, before he leans in again. 

“I … wasn’t…” Merlin half-lies between kisses, because he wasn’t about to put it so bluntly. 

Against his mouth, Arthur grins broadly and Merlin pulls him closer, hissing when their bodies brush together, Arthur’s skin so warm and smooth against his own. Merlin slides his arms around Arthur’s back and bites Arthur’s soft mouth, sliding his tongue between his lips when Arthur parts them on a hoarse groan. He can’t get enough of kissing Arthur, of tasting the spiciness of his mouth or the salt on his skin and he still feels overwhelmed with the reality of it all. Here they are and Arthur is in his arms and it is the start of something new. 

When they finally made it to Merlin’s hotel room in the early hours of the morning, they were both exhausted from the events of the night and from celebrating Gwen and Lance’s wedding. Merlin remembers vaguely stumbling inside the room with Arthur plastered to his front. They had kissed, staggering towards the bed, divesting themselves of clothes clumsily but single mindedly, before tumbling down onto the comforter in a tangle of limbs and half-removed clothes. It’s all a bit blurry in his head, but he remembers some groping and the strange sensation of being dragged under by sleep despite his arousal. 

Arthur breaks the kiss and breathes out his name, sounding wrecked as he grinds his hips down, seeking friction. He’s hard in his briefs, the line of his cock pressing into Merlin’s thigh, eliciting in Merlin the need to get his hands on him right now, touch that silky-smooth hardness and wring more moans from Arthur’s lips. He flips them over and reverses their positions, before pushing himself up to sit between Arthur’s splayed legs. Merlin takes a moment to appreciate the way Arthur looks lying beneath him, long, strong limbs, tanned summer skin over defined muscles, his eyes wild. The sunlight is catching the fine blond hair on his arms and chest, making him look like some glowing, half-naked classical hero. His mouth is red and bitten, his face beautifully flushed and Merlin groans when he skims his eyes down Arthur’s chest to his groin to where the dark fabric of his briefs is tented and dampened. 

“You ridiculously beautiful prat,” he whispers, watching his pale hand reach out and drag upwards over Arthur’s thighs. 

Arthur sucks in a harsh breath when Merlin’s fingers skim his briefs, Arthur’s cock jumping at the touch, but his eyes aren’t leaving Merlin’s face and his breathing accelerates. “Please,” he says quietly, his hips rising to meet Merlin’s hand. 

“Fuck,” Merlin mutters and decides to put both of them out of their misery. He leans forward, nuzzling his face against the front of Arthur’s briefs, groaning at the scent of Arthur’s arousal, before letting his tongue follow the line of his cock. He tastes fabric and precome and doesn’t mind as Arthur groans above him, his hand coming down to thread his fingers into Merlin’s hair. Merlin draws back and hooks his fingers into the waistband of Arthur’s underwear, peeling it down and off slowly, revealing Arthur’s flushed cock. Arthur moves his legs to help him and Merlin carelessly flings Arthur’s briefs somewhere behind him to join the scattered pieces of clothing lying on the floor from last night. 

He doesn’t waste much time in getting his mouth on Arthur, almost desperate in his haste to taste him again. It’s even better than he remembers, soft skin and hardness and that heady, exciting flavour that might be just Arthur. Groaning, Merlin takes him further inside his mouth, enjoying how Arthur clutches desperately at his curls when he does so and makes a whimpering sound that might be Merlin’s name. 

It’s so immediate and intimate and he forgot how it could be when you really, really want someone like that. He feels his own cock twitch with arousal whenever Arthur makes one of the perfect, sexy, desperate noises that spill from his lips with every swipe of Merlin’s tongue or brush of his mouth, a pulsing beat that throbs in his groin and causes him to grind his hips down into the mattress. Above him, Arthur becomes restless, his hips moving, fingers of his free hand clutching the sheets. Merlin glances up to watch him, struck with the image of Arthur with his head dipped back and mouth parted, his body taut as he digs his heels into the bed and jerks his hips. Merlin finds he’s done teasing and he increases the pressure of his mouth and hollows his cheeks, sucking Arthur down and willing him to explode into his mouth. Arthur’s hand alternates between gripping the strands of his hair and petting him as his fingers tighten and relax and it’s so hot and so good that Merlin has to reach down and wrap his fingers around himself. 

He gets no warning before Arthur fills his mouth, cursing out softly above him and Merlin tightens his lips around the head of Arthur’s cock and swallows the bitter fluid, his hand working himself frantically, so close to coming himself. He’s suddenly hauled upwards and Arthur’s mouth is on him, kissing him desperately. He finds his hand knocked away, but before he can protest, Arthur has reached inside his briefs and is pulling him off with hard, urgent strokes, making him shudder and cry out and spill messily over his own thighs and Arthur’s hand. 

Panting, he sinks forward against Arthur’s chest, his heartbeat drumming madly, blood rushing through his veins. 

“God,” Arthur murmurs, cups his cheek and tilts his head up, pressing their mouths together again, tongue pushing past Merlin’s lips. 

Moaning, Merlin clutches at Arthur’s arms and let’s Arthur lick his own taste from his mouth until the ebbing flow of arousal starts to turn tide, cresting again, slowly but undeniably. The first orgasm has barely taken the edge off and kissing Arthur like this, deep and filthy, is keeping Merlin half-hard. 

When Arthur draws back to gasp for air, he looks half insane. His hair is sticking up wildly and his eyes are half-lidded, mouth soft and wet, his cheeks flushed. He reaches up to brush his thumb over Merlin’s lips and shudders, says, “The mouth on you,” and dips his finger between Merlin’s lips. Grinning, Merlin gently bites into the pad of Arthur’s thumb, before soothing the sting with a lick, enjoying how Arthur’s eyes flutter shut. 

Arthur’s groan makes Merlin’s dick twitch happily, reminding him that recovery time is overrated, at least when he’s having sex with the bloke he’s been hung up on in what feels since forever. 

“I want-” he starts but is interrupted when Arthur says, “Yes,” again, just the way he did earlier and snorting, Merlin presses a kiss to Arthur’s mouth, smothering his amusement against his lips. 

“I have... stuff… in the bathroom,” Merlin says, regretting that he didn’t put anything out yesterday when he arrived at the hotel, but then again, he didn’t exactly expect to end up here, with Arthur, like this. The thought sends another thrill through him and he nearly falls off the bed when he gets up, his legs shakily misbehaving. 

“Don’t hurt yourself - I’ll still be here in a minute,” Arthur grins, looking awfully smug about being the cause of Merlin’s clumsiness. 

Merlin tries and fails to shoot him an annoyed look - he fears it comes out more desperate and horny - and staggers on wobbly legs towards the bathroom to rummage through his bag on the hunt for condoms and lube. He curses the fact that he was in a hurry yesterday morning and just tossed everything into his overnight bag. It takes him ages to locate the strip of condoms at the bottom of his pack, and when he straightens, he nearly jumps, because Arthur suddenly presses up naked and close against his back. 

“What happened to “-still be there in a minute”?” he asks hoarsely, tilting his head when Arthur’s mouth latches onto his neck. 

“It took you too long,” Arthur mutters against his skin, nuzzling behind his ear. 

With a grin, Merlin slowly turns in the circle of his arms and tosses the condoms onto the counter. “Well, now that you joined me in here…” he says and spins Arthur around, pressing him up against the sink. He means to finish the sentence, but Arthur’s breath hitches and his eyes slide closed and Merlin can’t resist crowding closer and biting the skin underneath his jaw, licking at the salt of Arthur’s neck.

Arthur groans and apparently realises what Merlin is trying to do, because he leans back, settling on the edge of the built-in-sink and reaches for him, his hands smoothing along Merlin’s sides. 

“Like this?” he asks softly and his eyes are dark when he pulls Merlin between his parted legs. 

“Mhmmm, like this,” Merlin agrees, shivering with arousal. 

Arthur reaches for his face and kisses him on a shaky sigh and Merlin buries his fingers in Arthur’s hair, groaning into his mouth when Arthur’s erection bumps against Merlin’s. 

“Now,” Arthur murmurs into the kiss before pulling back, his fingers stroking Merlin’s cheek. His eyes are blown and in the artificial, yellow light of the bathroom Merlin can see every tiny grey freckle and green speck hidden between the blue. 

Merlin really doesn’t need more incentive and he reaches out with shaky fingers for the strip of condoms. Together, they fumble with the foil, but it’s Arthur who with unsteady fingers rolls it onto Merlin. They are making a mess with the lube, because Merlin is impatient, but once he has sloppily managed to apply it to his cock, Arthur reaches for him again and pulls him forward by his hips. 

“Like this,” he says again and shifts, leading Merlin’s cock to the crease between his legs, opening his thighs. 

“Okay.” The word comes out shaky and breathy, and Merlin bites his lip and tries not to just utter a string of curses at how Arthur so obviously wants it, parting his legs on the bathroom counter for Merlin to take him right here and now.

It’s Arthur who swears as Merlin presses his cock against his opening, but his hands clutch encouragingly at Merlin’s hips and hold him close. Merlin sinks forward slowly, hissing through his teeth at the exquisite clench of Arthur’s body, carefully keeping his eyes trained on Arthur’s face, watching the little frown line appear on Arthur’s brows before it gets smoothed out and Arthur hisses out a moan and digs his fingers into his skin harshly. 

“Fuck, Arthur,” he murmurs, forehead dropping against Arthur’s, trying to breathe steadily and go slow, fighting his bodies’ need to just slide home until there isn’t an inch of air between them. Arthur feels incredible, his body gripping him tightly. 

“Ah, fuck,” Arthur whimpers and raises one leg, causing Merlin to slide forward and bottom out with a groan. 

It’s so good. Merlin can’t get over how good it is to feel this connected to Arthur. He remembers sleeping with Arthur and how it had always been so very intense, but over the years between then and now, he sometimes wondered if he hadn’t just glorified the experience in his mind. His memory doesn’t even come close. 

With a sigh he starts to move, loving how Arthur groans out his name and clutches his hip. Merlin reaches for Arthur’s left leg, gently pushing it upwards and hooking it over his forearm, allowing for a better angle, rewarded by how Arthur starts gasping for breath on every stroke of his cock into his body. 

He can’t resist leaning forward and eating the desperate groans from Arthur’s mouth, Arthur kissing back sloppily and messily. They find a rhythm, a slow, deep grind that makes Arthur tremble and Merlin feel light-headed and soon he has to draw back from the kissing to inhale much needed air into his lungs. His forehead drops against Arthur’s and he nuzzles his nose against Arthur’s cheek, listening to Arthur’s soft pants and little grunts, noises he can’t believe he’s the cause of. 

The angle becomes uncomfortable and Merlin gently pulls back and urges Arthur to turn around, watching with half-lidded eyes as Arthur bends forward and rests his elbows on the counter. Sucking in a harsh breath at the sight, Merlin slides his hand up the inside of Arthur’s thighs, above the globe of one pale ass cheek, unable to resist briefly toying with his pucker before trailing up the small of his back where Arthur’s tan line stops. Merlin takes himself in hand and guides himself back inside Arthur’s heat with a groan, and watches Arthur drop his hand onto his arms, his shoulders bunched as he pushes back. 

Seeing Arthur laid out before him is like something straight out of Merlin’s fantasies, an image he must have wanked to a hundred times, only this time it’s real. Moaning, Merlin reaches for Arthur’s hips and pulls him back to meet him, his rhythm faltering as he watches himself slide into Arthur’s gorgeous arse, the sight amazing and dirty. He fights the urge to speed up his movements and race towards completion, but forces himself to slow down instead, rocking forward gently but with deep strokes that make his toes curl against the cool tiles. Arthur is tight and hot and perfect around him and he would probably be able to go on like this forever, but Arthur isn’t having it and pushes himself upward. He reaches behind himself to grip Merlin’s leg, moaning his name on a trembling exhale. 

“Fuck, yes,” Merlin bites out and hauls Arthur upright, pulling him tight against his body until Arthur is leaning heavily against his chest. The new angle is awkward until Arthur widens his stance and Merlin has the advantage of his maybe half-an-inch in height giving him leverage. 

“God,” he breathes out when he spots their reflection in the mirror, Arthur flushed and panting and aroused in front of him. His hair sticks up every which way and his blue eyes look feverish and bright. Sweat is beading on his skin and his erection is dark and tightly straining against his abs. Merlin hooks his chin over Arthur’s shoulder and nuzzles his neck, a little embarrassed by how he whimpers into Arthur’s skin when Arthur rocks back his hips hard. 

“You look amazing,” he whispers, swallowing hard as he slides one hand down Arthur’s chest towards his groin, the fingers of his other hands splayed over Arthur’s hipbone. He watches as Arthur hisses when his roaming hand reaches its destination and he grips the base of Arthur’s cock, giving him a tight squeeze. 

“Merlin, please,” Arthur says shakily, wrecked. 

Merlin smothers a grin masked as a kiss against Arthur’s sweaty neck and wraps his hand around Arthur’s cock tightly, before thrusting forward hard, making them both sway. It’s like dancing, he thinks, only Arthur is infinitely better at this. Merlin starts moving with precision, his body demanding a harder, more relentless rhythm, needing release. He matches the strokes of his hand with the movement of his hips, moaning when Arthur’s hand reaches back to grip his leg tightly. In the mirror he watches Arthur and Arthur watches him. 

He’s getting closer, heat pooling in his groin, and Merlin thrusts hard and raises his toes to find the perfect angle. Arthur’s free hand shoots out and he catches himself on the sink, knuckles white as he holds on. They are both panting hard again and Merlin feels his heart beat madly against Arthur’s back. In his hand, Arthur’s cock is slippery with precome and he swipes his fingers over the head to collect a bead, before raising his hand to his mouth, groaning as he sucks the flavour from his thumb. 

“Gah,” Arthur whimpers, “you’re trying to kill me.” His words come out hoarse and desperate and Merlin bites his neck, loving the way he cries out and jerks. 

“I just…” Merlin says, panting as he reaches for Arthur’s cock again, “...want to see you… lose it.” 

“Keep going like that then,” Arthur gasps and Merlin moan-laughs and presses his face against Arthur’s neck and his hips into Arthur’s. 

The slap of their bodies and the sound of their gasps is loud in the tiled room and they spur Merlin on further, until he feels his balls draw upwards and his body go tight like a bowstring. Against him, Arthur is equally tense, equally close, and Merlin’s eyes flutter shut no matter how much he wants to keep watching Arthur fall apart in the mirror. His orgasm builds quickly and rolls over him like a tidal wave, making him shudder and jerk as he pounds into Arthur’s body with small, quick thrusts. He cries out and squeezes his eyes shut, shaking through his release, just as Arthur covers his hand that has gone slack on his cock and starts stroking himself off with their combined fingers.

Arthur moans desperately, mutters his name roughly and shudders and Merlin manages to open his eyes to watch Arthur come, head lolled back against Merlin’s shoulder, messily painting his stomach with his come. 

Groaning, Merlin sinks forward against Arthur’s bulkier frame, feeling all his muscles go slack, relieved that Arthur is sturdy and fit and that it’s only Merlin’s leg muscles trembling with exhaustion. 

“Fuck,” Arthur breathes out, but it sounds satisfied. 

“Yeah,” Merlin agrees, uncaring that he’s probably drooling a little against Arthur’s shoulder. 

He groans in protest when Arthur starts moving, slowly untangling their bodies before turning around in the circle of Merlin’s arms. When he all but slumps forward, Arthur laughs and carefully keeps him at arm’s length. 

“Careful of the mess,” he says, but Merlin couldn’t care less. In fact, he wouldn’t mind rolling around in it just to have more of Arthur’s scent on him. It’s a very animalistic thought, but it’s so hot that he shivers despite his recent orgasm. 

“I’m going to make you come on me later, anyway,” he mutters and rubs his face against Arthur’s neck, thinking of letting Arthur do whatever the fuck he wants with that suggestion.

“Oh God, you arse, now I’m thinking about doing just that… “ Arthur whimpers, “you’re absolutely relentless. I was going to suggest breakfast…” 

“Mhmm, food.” Merlin agress and straightens himself, blinking slowly through his post-orgasmic haze at Arthur, who has the audacity to look like he’s glowing. Merlin is pretty sure he on the other hand looks like he ran a marathon but barely made it to the finish line, red-faced and splotchy. 

Arthur quirks his lips and looks at him with soft eyes and a fond smile. He leans in to kiss him and Merlin sighs, getting carried away again by the wet brush of Arthur’s mouth. 

“Food,” Arthur growls when he finally pulls back. 

“Bed,” Merlin says, just to be contrary. 

“Food, or no more bed.” Arthur reaches back to turn on the sink, then turns around to wash the come off his chest and belly. 

“You’re not allowed to have a shower,” Merlin says and carefully gets rid of the condom, tossing it in the nearby trash can. 

“Do I look like I’m about to take a shower?” Arthur asks and raises his eyebrows. 

Grinning, Merlin presses up against his back and hooks his chin over his shoulder again. He takes in their reflection once more, amazed by seeing Arthur in his arms, like this. 

“We should probably clean up a bit,” he allows and presses a kiss against Arthur’s cheek. 

“Yeah, you have awful sex hair,” Arthur agrees and reaches back to wrap a hand into Merlin’s hair, threading his fingers through Merlin’s curls. 

With a sigh, Merlin licks a path from Arthur’s jaw to the shell of his ear, unable to resist. 

Arthur’s next words make him pause, though. “Are you really in love with me?” He doesn’t sound exactly insecure about it, but there’s enough of hesitation in his voice that Merlin pulls back and turns him around. 

“I wrote a song for you,” Merlin says, “which I played in front of all of our friends, then stumbled after you like an idiot. If i have to play all the songs I’ve written about you to convince you - even the bad ones - and embarrass myself over and over again, don’t think I won’t absolutely do so.” 

Arthur snorts out a laugh, but Merlin isn’t finished, feeling like he needs to make it completely clear what he feels for Arthur. “I’m so scared to fuck this up again, but I want to be with you. I want to be your friend and your lover and I want to be your boyfriend. Fuck, I really want to be your boyfriend,” Merlin murmurs, carefully watching Arthur’s face for his reaction, “and I don’t give a shit about people thinking that’s strange because our parents are married.” 

Arthur laughs again, but he looks pleased and there’s a blush on his face that is simply delightful. “Good,” he says quietly and kisses him. “Boyfriend,” he tacks on, once their lips part and Merlin decides it’s okay to feel a bit mushy and emotional and wraps his arms around Arthur. 


	17. Part 2: 2019 - Chapter 5

Art shows, Merlin decides, are weird. There are too many people crammed into the gallery space, milling about, and most of them are not even looking at the art on display, but standing together in small clusters, chatting. It seems like everyone knows everyone and there’s lots of cheek-kissing and air-kissing and loose hugs and exclamations of “Good to see you! It’s been too long!!”

Merlin and Morgana wander the exhibition slowly. To Merlin it seems like they are the only two people actually giving a fuck about the art work, with everyone else around them catching up on gossip. Arthur has vanished somewhere at the other side of the room where he’s been shaking hands and smooching up to art critics and prospective buyers, shepherded by the gallery owner together with the other four artists whose works are presented tonight. 

The name of the show is “New Urban Drawing” and Merlin doesn’t think the title is very inspired, but the poster announcing the show looked sufficiently hip in bold neon letters and Arthur was so pleased when he brought it home, that Merlin framed it and hung it up in the bedroom. 

Apart from Arthur’s three-dimensional collages, the show presents very detailed architectural pieces in pencil, an intricate, fantastical city-scape meticulously built from paper cones and large, expressionist drawings with crayons on carelessly ripped off kraft paper tacked to the wall with pins. It’s a rather interesting compilation and certainly visually varied. Rather than hung together in clusters, the art works have been combined to complement and interact with each other.

“This is you,” Morgana says, a statement, not a question, when they come to stand in front of one of Arthur’s paintings. 

“No, it’s not,” Merlin protests, squinting at the small figure in the lower corner of Arthur’s artwork resting on a bed of moss, curled up in a fetal position, while all around, the earth is disintegrating, sliding away in landslides, vanishing in chaos. Overhead, a dragon seems to swoop in, possibly to save him. 

“It is.” Morgana leans forward. “That’s your ugly mop of hair.” 

“It’s just someone with dark hair,” Merlin protests, but he remembers yelling about being a dragonlord in the Stone Circle on that day back in Wales and he thinks, Arthur might too.

Morgana shoots him a pitying look, but doesn’t say anything and they wander to the next piece, a paper object of intricate drawings by the city-scape girl, a young woman named Steph, who Merlin met when he visited Arthur in the gallery during the exhibition setup. 

“I’m glad you finally got your shit together about Arthur,” Morgana says unprompted, studying the paper object with a frown on her face. 

Merlin makes a consenting noise, his eyes drawn across the room to where Arthur is standing chatting to a woman with crazy red hair, his hands animatedly accompanying his talk. He looks devastatingly handsome in his casual blue suit and Merlin’s mouth twitches, remembering how he was the one who helped him dress. Come to think of it, he’s going to be the one who’s going to peel that suit off him later, and that’s even better. 

“Ugh,” Morgana says next to him, “you both are still disgusting, though.” 

He turns back towards her to see her smile despite her words. 

“I’m just glad I don’t have to listen to you two shagging this time around,” she adds dryly and turns back to study the paper city. “I’m still scarred for life from the first time.” 

“That why you moved out?” Merlin quips. “Because if that had secured Arthur the Skyroom earlier, I would have put in even more effort.” 

He grins when she sticks her tongue out at him. 

“Do you think that looks like a penis?” she suddenly asks, pointing towards a tall paper object on display, her brows furrowed. 

Merlin tilts his head, eyeing the object in question. “I think it’s supposed to be a skyscraper.” 

“It looks like a penis,” Morgana says determinedly. 

“Maybe it’s a metaphor?” Merlin suggests. 

“It’s a penis,” someone says from behind them, and Merlin turns to find Arthur behind them, grinning. 

“Why does all art have penises?” Morgana asks, rolling her eyes. 

“Mine doesn’t.” Arthur practically shines with the excitement of the evening, his mouth still curled into a huge grin. 

“Not yet,” Merlin says, waggling his eyebrows in what he hopes is suggestive. 

“Blegh,” Morgana retches, mimicking sticking her finger into her mouth. 

“I had a classmate who drew penises for almost a year, exclusively. Nothing else, just dick pics. At some point our art teacher took him aside and suggested he’d try to branch out a bit,” Arthur says. “We had an art market at school - he was the only one who sold all his drawings, by the way. Sold a dick pick for 15 quid a piece. He went home with over 400 quid. Whenever someone bought one, he just slapped another one onto the wall.” 

“See?” Merlin says. “Dick pics sell. You should draw more dick pics.”

Arthur smirks and with a side glance at Morgana, leans closer, resting his hand at the small of Merlin’s back. “Are you offering to model?” he whispers, his amusement audible in his tone, warm breath washing over Merlin’s ear. 

“Definitely,” Merlin breathes, his voice a bit hoarse, caused by both Arthur’s closeness and the idea of Arthur drawing him like that. 

He’s glad to see that Morgana has moved on to the next drawing, so he doesn’t feel bad about the heated look he sends Arthur. 

“You’re on,” Arthur grins, moving his hand up Merlin’s back before clapping his shoulder. “I’m expected back over there, they are starting with the speeches any moment now.” 

“Go smooch some more, you shameless strumpet,” Merlin suggests flippantly. 

“Are you jealous?” Arthur laughs, his eyes twinkling. 

“Nah.” Merlin shakes his head. “It’s my bed you’re going to crawl into tonight.” 

“Yeah,” Arthur says slowly, looking Merlin up and down and he looks pleased, his cheeks a bit flushed. He begins to slowly walk backward, sends Merlin one more wink, then turns on his heel and vanishes into the crowd. 

Merlin just suppresses his happy sigh and turns back to the paper object, not really seeing it, thinking fondly of Arthur, in bed this morning, curled up on his side facing Merlin and drooling on his pillow.

He’s startled out of his reverie, when his mother steps up to him, huffing. 

“Sweetie, could you please take Pip for me? Uther is completely useless - I have no idea where he has vanished too. She’s getting heavy.” 

When he turns towards her, she looks a bit pained, standing strangely bent with Pip on her hip. 

“Of course. Come here, Pip.” He picks up his sister, settling her against him, watching as Hunith straightens and moans. 

“She’s getting tired. I hope the damn speeches start soon, so we can go home,” Hunith complains, wiping a stray strand of hair out of her face. She looks tired but beautiful in her short black dress and with her hair in a classic updo.

“‘Thur draw,” Pip says and wiggles in his arms, pointing at a drawing on the wall. 

“Yes, that’s one of Arthur’s,” Merlin confirms, shifting her on his hip and taking her closer, so she can look at it. He’s always amazed how observant she is. He studies the drawing, then looks at her little, rosy face. Her dark hair is long enough now that Hunith was able to put it into two tiny knots on the sides of her head and she’s adorable in her white polka-dot dress. Her eyes are tired though, her mouth slack. 

When he turns back to his mother, he shifts Pip again, so she can rest her head on his shoulder. At the far side of the room, the gallery owner has stepped up to the microphone, and Hunith breathes a sigh of relief.

“Thank God,” she murmurs, reaching down to straighten her dress. 

Against his shoulder, Pip grows heavy, and half-way through the curator’s speech, she’s snuffling little snores into his ear. 

The speeches are boring, except for the parts where Peter, the gallery owner and the curator are talking about Arthur’s work, but Merlin has a hard time following them anyway, because his eyes are drawn again and again to Arthur, who is standing near the little stage together with the other three artists, hands clasped in front of him, a small smile playing around his lips as he listens. Merlin’s heart soars and he can’t look away, mesmerised by that smile and Arthur’s contentment. 

He’s startled when he feels his mother reach for his hand and squeeze it and when he looks at her, she’s smiling slightly, her eyes soft on him. He flushes, caught staring, but she doesn’t say anything, just squeezes his hand again, before glancing back towards the stage. It dawns on him that she knows, and really, it was probably stupid not telling her right away, because Hunith can read him like a book. He was hesitant to tell her, in case it didn’t work out and also because he still can clearly remember that reaming she gave him the first time when she found out he had been sleeping with Arthur behind her back and the choice words she had to say about his foolery and lack of restraint. She doesn’t look livid now, and he relaxes, holding her smaller hand in his, until she lets go to clap at the end of the speeches. 

He refrains from clapping, not wanting to jostle and wake Pip, who’s probably drooling onto his teal suit and ruining his bow scarf, but it’s a small price to pay for knowing she feels safe and content. 

Morgana finds them again and coos over Pip until Merlin carefully hands her over, shifting her so that she doesn’t wake up. Pip has the fortunate advantage of being able to fall asleep even sitting up in her high chair. 

“Uther bought one of Arthur’s drawings!” Morgana whispers excitedly. “For his office at work. You shouldn’t tell Arthur, though.”

“So that’s where he went off to,” Hunith says. “I can’t even give him a good thrashing for that.” 

“I’m sure you can find something else to punish him for,” Merlin grins, huffing in pain, when his mother hits his stomach with the back of her hand. 

“Owww.” 

“Oh, Jesus, look at you. You look a right disaster,” Hunith murmurs and starts fussing with the lapels of his suit, whipping drool from his shoulder and pulling on his teal bow scarf before threading her fingers through his hair. 

“Mum,” he squeaks in indignation.”Stop it! Are you going to rub spit on my face next, or what?” 

Across from them, Morgana giggles. “I’d do it, if it helped, but there’s no saving your stupid face.” 

“You are not my favourite sister anymore,” Merlin says warningly, jerking his head aside so Hunith has to let go of him. 

“I’m going to the loo, see what I can do about the hair now that you flattened it into submission!” Merlin growls and stomps off, Hunith’s and Morgana’s laughter follows him. 

When he returns, the three of them are nowhere to be seen and Arthur is still held up chatting with a gaggle of art people at the other side of the room, so he wanders around, perusing the art works. The buffet has opened, and now everyone is milling around the plates of canapes and snatching glasses of wine from the wine bar. It’s like nobody is here to take a look at the artwork. 

He’s surprised to find a second red dot sticker next to one of Arthur’s drawings, the indication that the work has already been sold. He’s still staring at it, when Uther steps up to him, pressing a glass of white wine into his hands. 

“Did you buy this one as well?” Merlin asks, accepting the glass warily. 

“No. It’s the law of supply and demand. People want more of what others want.” Uther sounds pleased and when Merlin turns towards him, there’s a small smirk playing around his mouth, not unlike the one Merlin sees so often on Arthur when he’s being mischievous. 

“Drink,” he says, clinking his glass against Merlin’s. 

Confused, Merlin leads the glass to his lips, taking a sip from the tart white wine. “God, that’s awful,” he splutters, “Don’t they have money for better wine?” he complains, and Uther chuckles beside him. 

Uther clearly wants something, so Merlin keeps silent, reluctantly taking another sip from the glass. 

“I know you’re sleeping with my son,” Uther suddenly says. “Again.” 

He sounds matter of fact about it, but the sudden change in conversation makes Merlin splutter on his wine nonetheless and he coughs. He’s surprised to feel Uther’s hand on his back, slapping him. 

“Sorry...” he coughs, because there’s no way to deny it, “... Sir,” he tags on, wheezing. 

“If you hurt him this time, I’m putting you out on your arse.” 

“That’s only fair,” Merlin breathes, inhaling much needed air.

“I’m glad we agree on that,” Uther mutters calmly and takes another sip from his wine glass. 

“Absolutely,” Merlin echoes the sentiment, then decides it’s a good idea to down the contents of his glass in one go, horrible swill or not.

*-*

When Arthur finally returns from making the rounds and talking to art critics, prospective buyers and gallery owners, Merlin has just barely recovered from his conversation with Uther. 

“Your father knows,” he chokes out the moment Arthur steps up to him. 

“Yeah,” Arthur says slowly, taking in Merlin’s panicked face, before his eyes widen. “Fuck, I’m sorry. I should have said something to you right away. … I told him.”

“You told him?!” Merlin can’t help that his surprised outburst is so loud that the people nearby turn their heads in their direction and glance at them curiously. 

Arthur has the grace to blush, but he reaches for Merlin’s shoulder, drawing him towards a quieter corner. “I didn’t want you to be my dirty secret anymore,” he says quietly, and his words instantly placate Merlin, calming the quick burst of anger at Arthur going ahead without telling him. “Earlier he asked me if he should prepare to meet a boyfriend at the show, so I said yes.” 

“Jesus,” Merlin says, then reaches out and picks a wine glass from a tray held out to him by one of the waiters. He takes two large sips, before the tartness of the horrible wine makes him grimace. 

“He took it quite well,” Arthur says, looking puzzled for a moment, like he only now finds that suspicious. 

“That bastard knew before you told him, I’m sure,” Merlin nods. “He came over to give me The Talk.” 

Arthur wrinkles his nose. “He what?” 

“Just earlier. The whole ‘if you hurt him…’ spiel…” 

“Like… full on execution?” Arthur asks, aghast. 

“Expulsion.” 

“Could be harsher, I guess,” Arthur winces and picks the wine glass out of Merlin’s hand to help himself. 

“Ugh, that is… disgusting,” he huffs, grimacing. “How can you drink that?” 

Merlin shrugs. “Exceptional circumstances.” 

“We’re getting rid of this,” Arthur says determindley and places the half-full glass on a ledge. “There’s a bottle of Veuve Clicquot in the small fridge in the kitchen for later.” 

“The good stuff for royalty, the swill for the peasants?” Merlin asks mockingly, smirking when Arthur laughs. 

“You should go tell your mother. Right now, so I can kiss you in public instead of dragging you off to the bathroom for a clandestine snog,” Arthur suddenly says, looking dead-serious. 

“Oh, she knows already,” Merlin mutters, letting his eyes slide over the room to where his mother is standing with Uther, who has a still sleeping Pip on his shoulder, chatting to the curator. “We’re obviously bad at keeping our dirty secrets secret.” 

“And yet you still live,” Arthur mutters, giving Merlin an appraising look. “But really, you mean to tell me that I could have kissed you all evening long already?” 

His tone is so droll and affronted that Merlin can’t help but smirk. “Apparently,” he quips, watching Arthur’s answering smile, delighted when Arthur ducks his head and blushes. 

“Oh God, now I feel embarrassed. Are they watching?” He looks over his shoulder briefly, before ducking his head and Merlin laughs, feeling ridiculously besotted. He reaches out to draw Arthur closer, his hands coming to rest on Arthur’s arms and leans forward, their foreheads touching. 

“We can still go for that bathroom snog,” he suggests softly, fondly amused by Arthur’s sudden bashfulness. “Or you can start with holding my hand. Or just… you know… be yourself around me, like always. Don’t think too much.” 

Arthur exhales softly and nods, then pulls back, still looking abashed. “I’m sorry. I’m panicking. This is weird.” 

He clears his throat and slips his hand into Merlin’s, then says, like he isn’t actually holding Merlin’s hand, “Did you know I sold three drawings already? Three? Peter told me that’s more than most artists sell during their whole run.”

“I saw!” Merlin says, enthused. “You’re going to be famous!”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Arthur scoffs, but he looks pleased, his cheeks flushed, his eyes sparkling. 

“I’m going to tell you another dirty secret,” Merlin whispers, because he believes that Arthur deserves to know that Uther is proud of him. “Your father bought the first one.”

“He did?” Arthur looks floored and instantly turns around to gaze to where their parents are still chatting to the curator, even though Hunith is looking a bit impatient now, tugging gently on Uther’s sleeve. 

“He’s proud of you.” 

When Arthur turns back to face Merlin, he’s biting his lip, still appearing thrown by Merlin’s revelations. 

“Don’t tell anyone I told you. He didn’t want you to know.” 

Arthur blinks, mutters, “Where’s that horrible wine? Now I need a drink.” 

“Later,” Merlin laughs, giving his hand a squeeze. 

“I’m terribly hungry, though. And the buffet is empty. These people are like locusts,” Arthur complains, glancing over his shoulder disdainfully. 

“There’s a What the Pita down the street. We could hop out, get some food, and be back so you can continue to whore yourself out for your art.” 

“It’s like you spot a vegan eatery from miles away, it’s like gaydar, only for food,” Arthur mutters and rolls his eyes, but he’s already pulling Merlin towards the door. 

“It’s döner. There’s hardly anything better,” Merlin defends himself half-heartedly, stumbling along behind Arthur. When Arthur suddenly halts without advance warning, Merlin crashes into his back, cursing. 

“What are you stopping for, you clotpole?” Merlin hisses and takes another step, only to come face to face with his mother, Uther and Morgana, who are also heading for the exit and are the cause for the hold-up.

“We are going for döner,” Merlin blurts out, acutely aware of Arthur’s hand in his. 

“What a Pita?” Hunith asks, not batting an eye at their joined hands. “We were just going there to get take-out.”

“Awkward,” Morgana grins, and Merlin sends her a glare so forceful, it should make her shrivel up and die on the spot. 

“We should go together,” Arthur says and raises his chin in challenge, his blue eyes blazing as he too stares down his sister, daring her to say anything else. 

Uther rolls his eyes, long-suffering, shifting Pip on his shoulder with a grunt. “Let’s go then and not linger, or we’ll never get home.” 

“We could have gotten a babysitter, but no, you didn’t want one,” Hunith mutters sotto voce as they file out the door, a sharp edge to her voice, Uther’s answer a low, defensive rumble. 

Arthur snorts and they trail after Morgana and their parents, following them slowly to the fast food restaurant down the street. Ahead, Uther and Hunith are still softly bickering. 

“You know, I’m glad your father married my mother, after all,” Merlin says softly, swinging Arthur’s arm gently as they walk. 

Arthur stops, grinning as he pulls Merlin towards him. “Oh, why is that?” he asks playfully and raises a hand to cup Merlin’s cheek, his thumb slowly dragging across Merlin’s skin. 

“I met this absolutely infuriating moron,” Merlin smirks. “A true prat. Two braincells.” 

“I heard he’s hot,” Arthur mocks. 

“There’s that.” 

Arthur’s still grinning when his lips press against Merlin’s, a soft, wet, familiar touch. 

“Oi!” Morgana hollers from down the street, “stop snogging! We’re starving!”

Merlin is sorely tempted to flip her the finger, but Arthur keeps an iron grip on his arm, like he knows what Merlin is thinking of doing and keeps kissing him, until Merlin has to draw back and gasp for breath. 

When Merlin looks up the street, the others have already entered the restaurant. He raises his hand to rub the back of his neck, feeling a flush rise on his face.

“So… that happened, huh?” he says, licking his lips. 

“Definitely,” Arthur confirms with a grin. “Come on. We’d better get inside. My father is paying.” 

“Poor starving artist. Sold only three pieces tonight,” Merlin quips, then chortles when Arthur shoves him, causing them both to sway and stumble. 

“You’re not going to laugh when you have to support me and my art for years and years on your research salary.” 

“For years and years?” Merlin asks, surprised by how Arthur’s words make him shiver with delight. 

“Yes. For years and years, at least.” 

“Good,” Merlin grins and grips Arthur’s hand just a little tighter.

**The End**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed my story as well as VentiMocha's art! 
> 
> We appreciate if you leave comments if you made it this far and enjoyed our Big Bang! 
> 
> Thank you!!! <3 <3 <3

**Author's Note:**

> **Fanmix by yours truly:**
> 
> I've made a fanmix chock full of indie, new rave and dance-punk to set the mood. It's mostly in order with the fic and all the songs mentioned are on it (except for the songs Merlin doesn't like). Find songs by Bombay Bicycle Club, Death from Above 1979, We are Scientists, Late of the Pier, Bright Eyes, The Psychedelic Furs, Digitalism, Death Cab for Cutie, Bloc Party and Does it Offend You, Yeah?:  
> 
> 
> **[Nobody moves, nobody gets hurt Soundtrack on Spotify](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0AP25HELgGYqgSPhzS5xw8?si=xs6mAWf_TLiX9wjD4C5jFQ)**
> 
> As of January 2021, this fic is part of a series :-)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Art for 'Nobody moves, nobody gets hurt'](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29631948) by [evaelisaa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/evaelisaa/pseuds/evaelisaa)




End file.
